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THE 




STORY OF A DREAM 



CHICAGO 

CHARLES H. KERR & COMPANY 
1896 



i 



Copyright, 1895, by 
Ethel Maude Colson 


Just over the border which lies between 
The life which we feel and know 
And that which no earth-blind eyes have seen, 

Is a place where all souls must go; 

Where strange things happen and visions come, 

And life like a fancy seems. 

As far and faint as a wild bee’s hum, — 

’Tis the wonderful Land of Dreams. 

There joys too pure for this baser earth 
Lie waiting for eager hearts, 

And loves which died in their very birth 
Grow near as the world departs; 

There vanished faces look forth and smile, 

And many a lost hope gleams, 

And buried thoughts live a sweet, short while, — 

In the wonderful Land of Dreams. 

There sorrows shirked must be borne anew, 

And many a heart mustache; 

But how sweet is the land where all dreams are true, 
The world which each soul must make! 

Glad Life and Death in its bounds are one. 

Each fed by its varying streams, 

And all return, when their days have gone, — 

To the wonderful Land of Dreams. 




I • ^ 


• ^ 


\ 


• ^ a * • 





* \ 



t' 



H)e^tcate^ 


To MY DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER, AND 
TO THE “other MOTHER” WHO EQUALLY 
SHARES WITH THEM MY DEEPEST LOVE 


AND AFFECTION, 



THE STORY OF A DREAM. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE DREAMER. 

This is the story of a dream. Not only a 
dream of the kind which visit souls by night, 
the God-sent, world-derided visions which 
mankind receives with half-veiled belief while 
still the night is dark, and laughs to scorn in 
the new-found bravery and presumption of 
the dawning day, but one of the longer dreams 
which mortals call Life. It is the story of 
the last period I spent on earth, but not the 
last I shall pass there, I fear, for I am far, 
very far, from perfection, and the earth is the 
school in which the kindly Law of Nature 
decrees that all souls must seek after and find 
this wondrous thing, the Holy Grail of which 
the poet-seers sing. 

Am I dead? Oh yes, long since! How 
am I writing this? Do not ask. Suffice it to 
say that I died very long ago. So long ago, 
indeed, that I have almost forgotten how it 
7 


8 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


feels to have a material body, and it is only 
once in a decade or so that I feel the mad de- 
sire to live, to breathe, to feel the warm blood 
pulsing in m}^ veins and watch it coloring my 
limbs; to know, in a word, all the sweet, un- 
appreciated, blissful pleasures which belong 
merely to living, the glorious joys men ceased 
to care for centuries ago. They went out of 
date and fashion together with the times of 
simple patriarchal existence, the times when 
men knew all a soul needs to know without 
the labor of studying, the times of happiness 
and health, the times which died when the 
desire for learning and accomplishments took 
possession of the mind of the race. Nature 
mourns for those days still, the winds wail, 
the rains weep, and the waters moan for its 
memory always; but the human children of 
the Great Mother, save only the wery old who 
have outgrown the hurry of life, the young 
who have not yet become drunken with its 
mad pace, and here and there a child-soul 
which still longs and pines for the old, sweet, 
simple days when life was one long joy, have 
forgotten their lost heritage, and rest content, 
nay, never content, — but satisfied, with the 
idols of Money, Fame and Ambition, which 


THE DREAMER 


9 


they have substituted for the keynote to which 
the harmony of the whole universe beat once, 
— the Song of Love. The eyes of the dumb 
beasts are still sad with the haunting memory 
of that joyous period, far back in the baby- 
hood of mankind; the children and idiots who 
are not blind with the world’s knowledge 
live in it by seasons, but alas for humanity! 
It is a dream which only comes to older peo- 
ple verj^ rarely, in times of sorrow and ex- 
treme gladness; in the times when they turn 
to the Great Mother, and rest upon her wide, 
loving bosom, exactly as in times of childish 
gladness or trouble we all turn to the mother 
who bore us, and take comfort in her sym- 
pathy. But this happens seldom in an ordin- 
ary life; only, — at the end, when we are tired, 
and our hearts are worn out with aching or 
joy, and our souls and bodies alike bent with 
the burden of the years in which we have 
tried to live, but never succeeded, because 
men have learned so much that they have 
forgotten how to live, — at the end of all, we 
turn our faces to the wall and are gathered at 
last to the rest which the earth holds for all 
her children alike, be they good, bad, or worse 
than bad, — indifferent. 


iO THE STORY OF A DREAM 

What has all this to do with me, and my 
story of a dream? Much, very much. It is 
a kind of wandering record of the aggregate 
impressions I have learned since I left the 
earth, and came, not a step higher,perhaps,but 
at least a step farther on. I am telling you how 
life looks to those who no longer experience 
it, and I have looked at it often since I rashly 
took the Eternal Law in my own hands, and 
threw my body away. 

For I was a suicide. I killed my body; not 
with steel or powder or poison, it is true; that 
is, not poison of the material world, but I 
murdered my body, and went far toward mur- 
dering my soul, with the subtler, more deadly 
poison of the mentality, bad thoughts, not 
exposed to the air of the world and the nul- 
lifying effects of the thing called “Fear of 
men’s Condemnation,” but shut up, prisoned, 
in the soul till they turned and rended it. I 
slew my body by the power of mine own un- 
bridled passions, grown strong with ages and 
aeons of flourishing use and indulgence, and 
sent my shivering Ego out into a strange, cold 
world for which it was not yet ready. 

I pass over the agonies I endured during 
the time which elapsed between the date of 


THE DREAMER 


II 


my bodily death and the day on which this 
should have occurred had I lived rightly, the 
time in which my personality, bound to the 
earth by that material body which I had loved 
so well and blindly, and to which I was ir- 
revocably anchored so long as an atom of it 
remained mouldering in the earth, for there 
were none to have it disintegrated quickly by 
the kindly fire; the cruel time when I was but 
a dreaded phantom to the finer souls who were 
able to discern my astral body as it floated 
around the places where I had lived, going 
over and over the scenes which had especially 
impressed its soulless personality, — and come 
to the time when I found myself here in Deva- 
chan. 

Where is Devachan? Who can tell? It 
is not a place but a state, and how I came 
here is beyond your comprehension, — and 
mine. But here I am, and here I have been 
for — how long? I do not know; time in Deva- 
chan is like that idea of it which the “sweet 
singer of Israel,” — ah me ! how far he had seen 
along the Shadowy Ages himself! — attributes 
to his deity. You remember,do you not? “A 
day is as a thousand years, and a thousand 
years but as one day.” 


12 


THE STORY OE A DREAM 


So it is here, in this Place of Souls; we 
know that time is, but we experience it not. 

We do not live, we never die, for we are 
but awaiting another birth, another entrance 
into the struggle of life, higher or lower in 
the scale according to our former misdeeds or 
successes. Shall I ascend in the scale next 
time? How can I tell? I failed in my en- 
deavors because I tried wrongly, and would 
have constrained Nature, but I labored long 
and faithfully, and the Law is kind as well 
as just. On earth men are kind or cruel, but 
they are never just. Here all is unfailing, 
inexorable, unalterable justice. 

On earth men think that the Law, or God, 
as they phrase it, bias favorites ; they say He 
blesses one and curses another; here we know 
better. We know that we live in the houses 
we have builded with our own personalities; 
we know that we have laid out our own en- 
vironments, and that as we have sown so must 
we reap, until the crop is all harvested; and 
on earth men continually plant afresh, — good 
dnd evil mixed together, — and yet they mourn 
that the crop is not all fine, pure grain. 

How do we pass the time in Devachan? 
We need not to pass it. We have no pleas- 


THE DREAMER 


13 


ures, no sorrows. All sensation is alike to 
us, as to all souls which are naked and bare 
of the covering of thoughts with which they 
clothe and hide themselves from themselves 
and each other, and we need no amusements. 
We rest. Rest in an utter completeness of 
repose which mortals cannot comprehend 
while still they live on the earthly plane. We 
rest and rest simply. 

Only, — we dream. Pleasant dreams al- 
ways; that is, pleasant in the way that it is 
pleasant to read of varied experiences, for we 
dream of the lives of our dearest and nearest, 
— yes, I put the dearest first, for is it not true 
that oftentimes the ones we love best are 
bound to us by no tie of kinship or blood? — 
we see them pass before us in the astral light, 
but everything we see is tinged as with rose- 
color, for the Law is kind and tender, as are 
all just things, and we know naught of pain 
or sorrow here, in our Land of Dreams. We 
know that sorrow and joy are alike both need- 
ful and good, and in finding the thing for 
which men have ever fought and battled, the 
thing for which all long, albeit under many 
different names, the thing which is not found 
on earth, and the lack of which has given the 


1 4 THE STORY OF A DREAM 

sad bitterness to the cry which rings up to us 
from the earth, in embracing Justice, undis- 
guised as Forgiveness or Mercy, we have 
found peace. 

Sometimes we dream of our own past lives, 
the lives which have lifted or lowered us in 
the waters of time and space, and sometimes 
our dreams are of that which is yet to be. 

All the dreams which give happiness to 
men, every lovely vision after which they 
strive and seek, every glorious phantom for 
which they vainly reach, comes to us first. 

Never a beautiful picture is painted, or a 
statue hewn, never a grand poem speaks to 
the soul of the world, never a lovely creation 
is brought into being but we see its astral 
counterpart, its foreshadowing, and we see 
them in a degree of beauty men never do, for 
we see the Ideal, and they the Real. 

We see all the good and noble actions 
which help the world, too, even to the patient 
thoughts and aspirations of the Unknown 
Heroes who crowd the world unseen of men; 
we see how they sweeten the earthly atmos- 
phere, we see their prayers and renunciations 
rising up like a golden mist, and sometimes 
we see how mistaken, how foolish are their 
sacrifices. 


THE DREAMER 


15 


But we never wish to prevent them, to play 
Providence, for we know that all is well, and 
that even evil is but perverted good. And 
we know that a well-balanced reward awaits 
the good, and equally well-balanced punish- 
ment the evil among men. For this is the 
world in which cause and effect are practically 
one, and intentions are of more import than 
deeds. 

In this state, too, we view our own actions 
as impartially as those of another, and we 
neither mourn for nor regret them. 

But sometimes we dream dreams about our- 
selves, sad, strange, sweet dreams, and I often 
dream over all that has happened to me. . . 
And this is what I always dream of first. 


CHAPTER II. 


A DREAM OF THE HEART OF THE STORY. 

Long, long ago, away back in the dim, far- 
away ages of the world, when mankind was 
yet in its primeval simplicity, and courts of 
law were unknown, there lived in the land of 
Assyria a youth and a maiden. And the youth 
loved tbe maiden as the apple of his eye, and 
all day as he tended his flocks and all night 
as he lay sleepless and gazed at the heavens, 
he thought but of her. The sunshine seemed 
bright or dim to him just as she smiled or 
frowned, the stars looked down upon him 
many times as he wept for the very love of 
her, and the moon witnessed his joy if she 
but looked kindly at him. The softly falling 
rain, the sparkling dew, the birds and the 
bees, the field-flowers and the waving grain 
all sang a joyously-sad song of which her 
name formed the refrain, with the wind and 
16 


A DREAM OF THE HEART OF THE STORY I'J 

the thunder to fill out the harmony, and her 
face looked up from the brooklets, down from 
the clouds, and appeared to him in the heart 
of each summer rose which swayed in the 
wind. The very ground she trod on was 
sacred to him, while the poor lame lamb she 
once pitied led the life of a king. 

Now the maiden, though she loved not the 
youth after this manner, yet she was but a 
maiden, and it pleased her well to be so loved ; 
so, knowing no other love, she yielded to his 
persuasions, and was given to him for wife, 
although she would not be espoused to him 
until the summer was past and gone. And 
as she went about her work each day, calm 
and peaceful, he lived but for her, and he 
pined for the summer to pass. Each day he 
thought of her beauty until his blood was like 
wine in his veins, and when her quietness 
chilled him, he thought also, “When the au- 
tumn comes, and she is mine own, she will 
wake and love me,” and striving to teach her 
the lesson so easy to learn, yet which cannot 
be taught, he trusted in God and was happy. 

Now the heart of the maiden was like a 
prisoned bird, and it fluttered in her bosom 
when she was alone, but at the youth’s ap- 


1 8 THE STORY OF A DREAM 

proach it grew colder and more heavy each 
day. Yet she thought not of the matter, and, 
living her simple life, was happy too. 

But one day as she stood at the well ready 
to draw water, a man of the tribe of Israel 
rode by, and he looked at the maiden and 
loved her. And when the soft glance of her 
eyes had showed him that she too loved him, 
he lingered and talked with her, and went 
to sojourn at her father’s house. And it came 
to pass that on many days they met by the 
well, and their hearts grew more together 
every day. And the youth who had thought 
her his own became flushed with anger, but 
still he trusted in God to right his cause, and 
spake no word to the maiden. Yet as the 
days went by he thirsted for the blood of the 
Israelite, and the Hebrew smiled whenever 
they met and said naught of marriage to the 
maiden, for his religion forbade him to marry 
one of another race. 

And when the autumn was nearly gone, 
he made ready to depart, and lo! the maiden 
wept sore to go with him, but he said: “How 
could I take an Ishmaelitish maiden to my 
father’s house ?” And as she still mourned and 
would not be comforted (after the manner of 


A DREAM OF THE HEART OF THE STORY 1 9 

maidens who love in vain), the youth to whom 
she had been promised heard her, and his 
heart waxed hot within him. 

And when he had reviled the Israelite, he 
said: “Shalt thou goto thine own country 
and, taking her heart with thee, leave her 
body behind? Verily thou shalt marry her, 
else will I kill thee.’’ 

But the other answered : “I war not with 
striplings,” and when the youth would have 
grappled with him he smote him and pierced 
him through the heart so that he died. And 
when he saw that the lad was dead, his spirit 
failed him, and he fled to his own country in 
haste; yet did he not take the maiden with 
him. 

And she, mourning sore, regarded not the 
love of her kindred, nor the sorrow of her 
mother who bore her, but pined for the 
Israelite, and when the autumn rains began 
she drooped and died. 

Now the soul of the Israelite was sore 
troubled when he knew that the damsel was 
dead and he mourned without ceasing, for he 
had loved her well, yet repented he not of 
the evil he had done her, but said: “How 
could I take an Ishmaelitish maiden to my 


20 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


father’s house?” and his heart was still hard- 
ened. And it came to pass that when the 
spring came again, he too died, and was as- 
tounded; for the soul of the Israelite and that 
of the Ishmaelite are but alike and as naked as 
new-born babes, in the sight of God. 

Then the great Law of the Created Uni- 
verse, the unalterable, infallible, inexorable 
Law of Justice, which is God, spake to the 
soul of the Israelite and said: “When next 
thou shalt visit the earth, thou must suffer for 
this wrong which thou hast done. As thou 
didst love the Ishmaelitish maiden, yet lacked 
the courage to marry her but didst flee and 
leave her to mourn, so in time to come shall 
she cause thee to love her, yet shall evade thy 
desire and thou shalt not be able to flee. As 
thou hast broken her heart, so shall thine own 
be rent in tw'ain ; as thou hast made one form 
of thy religion of more weight than Truth and 
Justice and hast raised it as a barrier between 
thyself and the maiden who loved thee, so, 
when next thou shalt meet, one self-made law 
of thy religious faith shall part thee yet again, 
shall bind thee with chains against which thou 
shalt struggle in vain, and shall make thy life 
a burden ; and as thou didst place the selfish 


A DREAM OF THE HEART OF THE STORY 21 


pleasure of the moment above all else, so shalt 
thou strive in vain to conquer thy natural de- 
sires. 

“And as for the youth thou slowest: thou 
didst steal his desire and the light of his life, 
and didst kill him in despair, with the work 
of his years yet undone. So shall he pierce 
thy heart with a sword sharper than thine 
own, so shall he throw down the tower which 
thy labor shall build, and so shalt thou, too, 
die in despair. Yet in the end thou shalt con- 
quer, though seemingly defeated, and at last 
all unknowingly come to a true knowledge 
of Me.” 

And to the soul of the maiden the great 
Law said: “Thou hast loved and hungered 
for love, and when next thou livest thou 
shalt have love in plenty; yet as thou hast 
despised the tenderness of thine own people, 
the love of kindred shall for a time be denied 
thee, and thou must also suffer in a less de- 
gree. But thy wrongs shall be avenged, yea, 
thou thyself shalt avenge them, for to thee 
as to all of my frailest yet strongest, my last 
and dearest creation, the wondrous Mystery 
called Woman, shall be given the powers of 
all the universe with but thine own ignorance 


22 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


of them to serve as a shield for mankind, and 
thou Shalt have thy heart’s desire. Yet as thou 
hadst no faith in Me, the Law of Universal 
Good, and didst weakly yield to thy sorrow, 
thou, at thy next coming, must for awhile 
go faithless, and with a heavy heart.” 

And to the youth God said: “Thy life was 
lived unselfishly and for others, so in thy next 
incarnation all things shall smile on thee, 
save that for a little, thou too must wander 
in darkness without faith in God or man, be- 
cause thou didst trust too blindly, and lacked 
the courage to take thine own, or hold that 
which thou didst claim. Yet thou shalt have 
the priceless boon of happy confidence in thy- 
self, only beware lest it grow into presump- 
tion. But where thou wast defeated thou 
shalt conquer, where thy heart hungered it 
shall be filled, and where thou didst mourn, 
thou shalt rejoice. For ‘whatsoever a man 
soweth, that shall he also reap.’” 

And to all the souls God said: “Rest now 
for a little space, until in the fullness of time 
ye shall meet again, and, forgetting your past 
lives, shall, in working out your own salva- 
tion, bring joy and sorrow to each other.” 

And all the souls heard the voice of God, 


A DREAM OE THE HEART OF THE STORY 23 

though none knew that the other heard, and 
they knew that his name was Justice. 

And it came to pass that a great sleep fell 
upon them all. 


CHAPTER III. 


A DREAM OF THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 

And when the dream of which I have 
spoken has passed from me, the dream in 
which I first knew and loved the woman for 
love of whom I killed my last body, and 
would fain have murdered my soul, I dream of 
her and myself under many skies, and in 
many strange circumstances. Sometimes I 
dream of the time when she was my wife, and 
would not love me; sometimes I dream of 
when she was the man and I the woman, of 
the life-dream in which I was her wife, and 
could not escape from her bondage; again I 
dream of when, ages later, I was a woman 
still, and loved her, still functioning as a man, 
to distraction, but the laws of the Molochs of 
Conventionality and Custom, bitter, heart- 
rending, accursed things, bound me a^ with 
chains of invisible iron, and kept me from 

24 


A DREAM OF THE BEGINNING OF THE END 2 

wooing her, from firing her cold heart with 
the flame which seared my own. 

Now and then I dream of myself, once 
more a man in body, as well as soul, fighting 
through the wars of the crusaders with her 
colors on my helmet and sword-hilt ; occasion- 
ally faint, dim visions of her, separated from 
me by the robe and cap of a convent, flit be- 
fore me, and once in along, long while 1 see 
her as my beloved, torn from my arms by 
racial prejudice. Always I dream of her as 
separated from me in heart, or soul, or body; 
always I am following a false scent; always 
it is my own misguided sense of right, my 
own blind bowing down to the things which 
are, my own lack of the courage which 
breaks down barriers and leaps obstacles, 
which holds us apart, and always he, the man 
whom I slew, stands between us. Sometimes 
he is her father, forbidding us to marry be- 
cause of family feuds; sometimes he is the 
priest who persuades me that Religion is 
higher than Truth or Love; sometimes he is 
the general who orders my company away to 
the wars in which I am to lose my life, — and 
her once more; sometimes he is the lover she 
prefers to me. My saddest, bitterest dream 


\n 


26 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


is of the life in which I was born with the 
strong, stern soul of a man in the weak, frail 
body of a woman, and saw him, her husband 
then, punish us both through his cruelty to 
her; the dream which comes nearest to mov- 
ing me to anger, if a bodiless soul could be 
otherwise than calm, is the remembrance of 
my own helplessness under the sight of what 
she, my darling child in that incarnation, bore 
in the way of indignities, sufferings, and slav- 
ery. What wonder that in my next life I, a 
man, espoused the cause of the weaker sex, 
the sex which is as strong in heart as it is 
weak in body, and broke my own heart in a 
pitiful, vain, useless struggle against the laws 
and conditions which bound her to slavery! 
I died a maniac that time. What wonder, I 
say, what wonder! 

My sweetest dream is of the life when she 
loved him rather than me, but in which I 
was able to save her life at the cost of my 
own, and, dying, to hold her in my arms. 
Perhaps it is because I carried that impression 
into Devachan with me that it remains so 
clear and strong; perhaps it is because I am 
still a long way from the perfect, calm, sex- 
less love one perfected Ego should hold to- 


A DREAM OV' THE BEGINNING OF THE END 

ward another. I cannot tell. Dwellers in 
Devachan know the futility of the human 
“because,” and “I know,” and rest satisfied 
with an impression, not seeking to analyze it, 
to pull it apart as a rose is shorn of its leaves 
in a useless effort to find the home of its sweet 
perfume. 

But in all my dreams I have loved her, I 
do love her, I love her still, I shall love her 
always, and though through each life I have 
not known the reason of my suffering in her 
lack of love or the want of her, still at the end 
of each period I have, for a brief space, un- 
derstood the mystery, and here in Devachan 
I know. I know, too, that she shall yet be 
mine in heart as she is in reality, for we twain 
were designed for each other and are in 
reality but one, and though when I go hence 
from here, I shall again not know how this 
shall be, I shall surely struggle upwards, and, 
having expiated my sin of long ago, having 
conquered the cause I set in motion in that 
far-away land of Assyria, we shall come to- 
gether, surely, certainly, yea, even though 
the whole universe were between us, and each 
separate atom held us apart; and our lives 
shall melt together, even as two sunbeams 


28 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


melt into one, or two streams, coalescing, 
grow together indistinguishably. 

And so I am happy and hopeful always, 
even when I think of how badly I remem- 
bered the lessons learned so hardlj^ in this 
last dream of mine, — and this is the substance 
of the dream. 

I was a priest; not of the Roman Catholic 
order, which is protected from loving by at 
least the traditions of centuries, the established 
order of things, and the confidence of the 
world in their celibacy; I was ever too prone 
to be foolhardy to thus protect m3*self from 
suffering, and ever too fearful of restraint; I 
was a piiest of the Anglican Communion, with 
only mine own vow, made when I but diml^" 
comprehended the power and beauty of love, 
to stand between me and m^^ destruction. 

But I was happy in mine own self-confi- 
dence, and dreamed not of falling. “For 
surely,” I thought in the depths of mine own 
conceit, “surel}^ my will is stronger than 
love.” But who can transcend the mighty 
Law of Karma, who can conquer Fate? 

Until my thirtieth birthday had been passed 
I was happy in my work and the power I had 
obtained over my congregation, — and to do 


A DRKAM OF THE BEGINNING OF THE END 29 

me justice, I wanted the power for good ends 
only, and really tried to induce obedience for 
the good of those who I fancied needed my 
care, — but suddenly a spasm of self-sacrifice 
enslaved me, and I left my church for a poorer 
one. 

And then she came into my life, she whom 
in other bodies I had loved so long, — came 
and worked my undoing. 

I was proceeding with vespers one even- 
ing, for I had instituted daily service, when 
I heard a voice thrilling out in the penitential 
psalm which I loved, for, with the idea of 
expiation which all unknowingly underran 
the glad current of my nature, I loved sad 
things, and reveled in penances and hard bur- 
dens. I spoke of love to my people, I told 
them of a Loving Father, but at heart I knew 
the God of my belief was a hard master, and 
I served him with tears and tribulations. 

So it was that I loved the De Profundis, 
and I was already moved when I heard that 
voice. “Out of the deep have I called unto 
thee, O Lord,” it sang in a sobbing, vibrat- 
ing beauty which made me shiver, and cease to 
sing, — 1 sang much in that last life on earth, 
having a good voice and loving it as the true, 


30 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


nature-trained musician always loves his in- 
strument, be it voice or harp, — and until the 
psalm was ended I could think of nothing 
but that wondrous voice, moaning out the 
trouble of the heart which lay behind it. 

Did I tell you that here in Devachan we 
know that voices are soul-bodies, and that 
though a man may hide his heart, may train 
his face to tell continual falsehoods, he can- 
not control his voice ; it will always remain 
a faithful indicator of his spiritual condition? 

And all the while 1 listened to that sweet, 
strong, deep tone, I knew that I had heard it 
many times before, heard it softly singing 
sweet love-songs, lilting happy melodies, 
murmuring tender cadences, and my whole 
heart responded to its call, the call which, 
unknown to either of us, it was sending from 
her heart to mine. 

This is what I now know I knew; in the 
time when this came to pass, I would have 
thought such fancies worse than wicked, — 
foolish, — and I put the thought of that won- 
drous melody from me quickly. But when 
I rose from my knees and turned to face the 
congregation, I looked for the face belong- 
ing to it, and I recognized it immediately, 
although she was not singing then. 


A DREAM OE THE BEGINNING OF THE END 3 I 

She faced me, in a seat near the front, and 
her sweet eyes gazed swimmingly up to mine. 
She was crying, and when the people had 
gone I found her there praying, and learned 
her grief. She thought, and so I fancied, that 
she confided her sorrow to me because I wore 
a priestly cassock, but I knew later, when I 
came here, that the confidence between us 
was the result of that bygone intimacy, a de- 
duction as simple as that two and two make 
four. So are many hearts drawn together in 
a way the world wots not of. We understood 
not what it was which drew us together. 

And this was the story she told me, her 
breath coming in quick sobs, her little hands 
clasped ; this was the ordinary tale of common 
woe, which she poured out. She had lost her 
mother, her sole relative on earth, save an 
aunt whom she did not love, who cared not 
for her, and yet with whom she had come to 
live, and I, who had never known my mother 
or father, who had no kin to feel the family 
tie with me, felt my eyes grow dim and my 
throat dry with sympathy for her. And when 
I had comforted her, promised to call upon 
her at the home of her aunt, who was a mem- 
ber of my church, when she had gone on her 


32 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


way, I sat and dreamed of her, even as I 
sometimes dream of her now. Poor soul, 1 
little knew why life was so sweet that night; 
it was the beginning of the end. 

After that I saw her every day, and she be- 
came an earnest believer in the advanced 
doctrines I believed and taught. She told me 
her sorrows, both in the confessional and at 
other times, and in this near communion, this 
drawing together of soul and body, we learned 
to love each other, she with the affection a 
child feels for its father, I as men have loved 
women ever since the first pair were created. 
But, as yet, I did not know it; I believed that 
I loved her merely as a pupil and penitent. 

And she, — she was so dear, so lovely. 
Her personality twined itself around m}^ 
heart, cramped my already restricted soul, and 
made me once more a slave to her winsome- 
ness, as it had done so many times before. 

She was such a little thing, not more than 
five feet high, but she was perfectly made, 
with tiny, lovable hands and feet, and the 
most slender, round form in the world. Why 
are small women so powerful to work havoc 
in the hearts of men? No grandly formed, 
statuesque beauty can compare with a minute 


A DREAM OF THE BEGINNING OF THE END 33 

morsel of femininity for charm and the quality 
which attracts. 

Dorothy, for her name was Dorothy Per- 
seus, sweet name which just expressed her 
delightful nature, — you see I can rave foolish 
nothings about her now ; it matters not, I have 
not my nature to struggle with and repress 
in this dream of rest, — had a small, pale face, 
with just the tints of a wild rose in her cheeks, 
and her eyes were gra}^ blue, black, green, 
just as her mood was sunny or mournful. But 
for the most part they were a clear greenish 
gray, the innocent, wide expression of which 
fascinated a man until he would have sold 
his soul for a sweet look of them, and her 
lashes were so long and curling that they 
threw shadows over her face and shining orbs 
like those which a passing cloud throws over 
bright, shining lakes and fields. Her face was 
broad at her white brows, and narrow at her 
cleft chin, and the hollow of her throat was 
the sweetest thing I ever saw, white as milk 
and soft as down. Her face was so sad and 
wistful at times that men were also sad to see 
it, and women loved her for its gentle gayety 
at others; a creature of moods she was, and 
sweetest in them all. 


34 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


She was just plump enough to be full of 
lurking dimples, and the touch of her hands 
was like warm, white satin, flushed faintly 
with the pink of a seashell. A woman made 
for love was she, my darling, m3’ dear, my 
sweetheart, albeit I never could call her thus, 
and I grew mad for love of her sweetness. 

Yet I knew not that I loved her thus, until 
— the trial came, and my soul sank under the 
burden. 

She had come to me in the confessional, — 
and often since I have thought that I must 
have been near the truth man}^ times when 
she knelt there, with only the latticed screen 
between us, and her soft voice and the in- 
describable perfume of her hair intoxicating 
me as she told her small sins and laid bare 
to me the very workings of her soul, so that 
an intimacy of knowledge of her nature came 
to me which could have been obtained in no 
other wa\^ — this is the secret of church ly 
power — and when she had been gone some 
time, and I had roused myself from thinking 
of her, I went into the church, and she knelt 
there sobbing. What he’r grief was I never 
knew — I do not know even now — for looking 
at her thus weeping, I came suddenly to the 


A DREAM OF THE BEGINNING OF THE END 35 

knowledge of the truth, and knew that I loved 
her as men only love once. Not this the love 
which the priest feels for his penitent, not 
this the fatherly love of the pastor, but the 
love of man for woman, of one soul for its 
twin. 

For a moment my breath was gone and m}^ 
heart stopped beating, but I retreated to the 
sacristy again, and in a moment I was out- 
wardly calm. The spirit of the ancestors who 
had fought in all the wars of their times was 
strong within me, the blood which had made 
me eager for conflict in bygone ages welled 
up in my heart, and not for a moment would 
I dream of yielding to this — as I termed it — 
deadly sin. 

I sat down and thought it over, dumb with 
surprise and angry dismay that I, Father 
Bertram, a sworn celibate, for seven years a 
member of the oi der of Saint Benedict, could 
love just as other men not bound by priestly 
vows; then I fell on my knees, but I could 
not pray. My soul was stricken dumb. If I 
had known that to my Higher Self alone 
could I look for help, I might have suffered 
less, but I did not know, and my will, so long 
super-dominant, having failed me, I was as 


36 THE STORY OF A DREAM 

a drowning man, and knew not where to turn. 

I did not go out into the church again; 
Dorothy, bless her dear name! had not seen 
me and I could not face her thus unmanned. 
So after a little I went to visit a dying parish- 
ioner, still with that curious sense of double 
consciousness which mankind feels when the 
ground beneath the trembling feet is suddenly 
stricken away; and when I returned it was 
night, and the church was locked and dark 
and silent. 

I let myself in and was about to yield to my 
agony, to groan in very abandonment of suf- 
fering, as I faced the knowledge that I loved 
and could not marry, that I had sold my 
earthly happiness for the sake of a slender 
chance for a higher spirituality, when I heard 
a faint sigh, and when I had lit the gas I 
saw her, my dear, my beloved, there, asleep. 

She was half kneeling, half sitting upon a 
hassock, with her little fair hands loosely 
clasped in her lap, and her head, covered 
with its veil of crisp, brown, waving hair, 
resting against the green cushions of the seat 
behind her. The dark background brought 
out the pallor of her face, still sad, and with 
traces of tears on her long black lashes, and 


A DREAM OF THE BEGINNING OF THE^END 37 

her breath came unevenly. I knew that she 
had gone to sleep there in the afternoon, worn 
out by her weeping, and that I must waken 
her, but I shrank from the task. 

For some time I stood looking down at her, 
lying there in the sweet, unconscious aban- 
donment of sleep; then I stooped and touched 
her hand. That touch was like applying fire 
to a prepared fire; my strength left me, and 
I stood helpless. I was mad with a wild, un- 
controllable desire to kiss her sweet lips, to 
take her in my arms. She sighed, and mur- 
mured some inarticulate words, and I knew 
that I must act at once if would preserve my 
manhood. Stooping again, I called her name 
(I dared not trust myself to touch her), and I 
added, whisperingly, “ My little love.” It was 
the only term of endearment I ever allowed 
myself to use until I came here, and it woke 
her, although she did not comprehend what I 
had said. 

“ What is it she asked, thinking, doubt- 
less, that it was morning, and I her aunt, and 
for a moment, longer surely than an eternity, 
she looked innocently up at me with the lan- 
guor of sleep still about her; then her maiden- 
hood took the alarm suddenly, 'and springing 


38 THE STORY OF A DREAM 

to her feet she faced me with all the innocent 
shyness, the sweet shame of a woman’s pure 
soul surprised in its retreat, in her glance. 

“Oh, Father Bertram!” she exclaimed, 
“where am I? What is the matter?” and 
her tone was wild with fear. 

Gently I reassured her, as gently as though 
my own heart was not tearing at its anchor- 
ing boundaries like a wild thing struggling to 
get loose, and it was the priest who spoke, 
not the man — the man who began to die from 
that moment. 

“You must have gone to sleep this after- 
noon, my child,” I said calmly, “for I have 
just found you here, and it is very late.” 

“Oh, what shall 1 do, what shall I do?” she 
moaned, innocently laying her small white, 
cold fingers on my arm, where they burned 
like iron. “Auntie will be so worried about 
me and so angry, and I am afraid to go home 
alone.” 

The tears came again now, and she was 
looking at me through them, her face very 
pale, and her red, curved lips quivering. 

“I will take you home, my child,” I said 
kindly, and she was at ease in a moment. 

“Let us hurry,” was all she said, except to 


A DREAM OF THE BEGINNING OF THE END 39 

ask how late it was, and when we were on the 
street she clung to me like a child. She was 
so innocent, so pure, dear little child-woman, 
that she never saw the smiles two of my 
parishioners exchanged when they passed us, 
with the light of an impudent street lamp flar- 
ing full upon her upturned face and tear-wet 
lashes. 

But I saw, and this is what the first smile 
meant: 

“Did you see that, my dear? Looks sus- 
piciously like love-making, doesn’t it?” (Ah! 
my eyes were opened now, and there are times 
when even the blind can see.) And the other 
smile answered, easily and carelessly, “Oh, 
that’s all right, my dear, that’s all right. He’s 
a vowed celibate, you know; it’s all right. 
She’s safe enough.” 

I knew I interpreted the smiles aright, and 
I did not wonder at the tenor of them. After 
the trouble Chicago has had with her ministers 
of the gospel — some of them rather — suspicion 
must necessarily be directed toward the whole 
calling more or less, and the tumult of my own 
heart did not give me the right to judge peo- 
ple for such hasty thoughts. Safe! Yes, she 
was safe enough, but what of me? I asked 


40 . 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


myself this question as, after bidding my 
charge good-night at her aunt’s door, I turned 
my steps back toward the church again. 

Many a night had I spent in prayer and 
vigil, my perfect health and proud asceticism 
leading me rather to enjoy the process than 
otherwise, but to-night, with this fire of love 
in my soul, I realized the bitterness of culti- 
vating a mediaeval soul in a nineteenth centuiy 
body. My convictions of the necessity of 
celibacy held firm, my intense reverence for 
a vow showed no signs of giving way, my 
love was strong as death — or jealousy. 

Something must yield; what would it be? 
Instinctively I felt that the battle was but 
just beginning, and my heart was cold with 
horror as I entered the cold, silent sacristy, 
and closed the door upon all the world. 

I wanted to wrestle with m}^ soul in the 
perfect loneliness necessary when a wound is 
too new and sore to bear the light, or the 
touch of even a sympathizing finger; but what 
is so hard to bear as self-contempt — and who 
can shut out a man’s thoughts? 

And in the gray dawn of the following 
morning, when the cold mists were creeping 


A DREAM OF THE BEGINNING OF THE END 41 

up from the lake in a ghostly fashion, uncov- 
ering the nakedness of the grimy, squalid city, 
and parting to show the shimmering, glim- 
mering beauty of the great Inland Sea which 
embraces it, as a mother cherishes even the 
dirtiest and least lovable of her children, 
just as the first gleam of sunlight touched the 
somber waves and kissed them into flashinor 
splendor, as the gentle hand of God turns de- 
spair to gladness, I dreamed a dream within 
a dream, and this was the dream I dreamed. 


CHAPTER IV. 


A DREAM OF PAST LOVE-EOOKS. 

The sun was shining down on the green 
fields of Assyria with a burning heat which 
made the cattle gather in the cool shade of 
the trees, only leaving it to stand knee-deep 
in the streams which sparkled happily and 
brightly in the hot beams, and the traveler 
who rode slowly down the road looked at 
them half enviously. He drew rein under 
the boughs of a spreading palm, and gazed 
for a moment at the lovely scene lying be- 
fore him, the while he passed his hand wearily 
across his heated brow and bared it to the 
breeze, scarcely less warm than the atmos- 
phere round him. 

Suddenly his face lightened and his e3^es 
smiled, for there before him, standing b}^ the 
well, all unconscious of his presence, stood 
a maiden. She was not of his race, he knew, 
42 


A DREAM OF PAST LOVE-LOOKS 


43 


for he belonged to the Israelites, and she to 
the land of Assyria, as was betokened by her 
garb, but she was very fair to look upon, 
and in his heart he yearned to see her more 
nearly. 

Riding up to the well, he said, in a deep, 
vibrating, penetrating voice, “Maiden, wilt 
thou give me of thy water to drink? That 
in my flask is warm and far from sweet.” 

The damsel looked up at him as he sat 
his horse with a kingly grace, and into her 
dark eyes there came a gleam as of sacred 
fire, as they met his gazing so ardently upon 
her. In that moment each loved, and each 
knew it, although the maiden was already 
betrothed, and the man was an Israelite, and 
sworn never to marry a maiden of another 
race. 

For a moment they studied each other si- 
lently, then the maiden dropped her shining 
eyes, and spoke slowly, sweetl}", in a voice 
like the sound of gentle waters failing gently, 
laughing softly to themselves hidden deep in 
the heart of a forest, raising as she began, her 
round white arm, shrouded in part by its 
loosely folding draperies, and lifting her long, 
slender water bottle, tilled to the brim with 


44 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


a liquid so cool that the moisture stood on the 
outside in delicious, refreshing-looking beads, 
high to his saddle in order that he might drink 
his fill with ease. 

“Surely my lord is welcome to my water, 
and I will draw for his beast also,” she said 
softly, and smiled. 

“Not so, fair damsel,” he answered, leap- 
ing to the ground as he spoke, “I will myself 
draw for the beast and to fill the flask which 
I have emptied.” 

But she restrained him with her cool, small 
hands, and at the touch of them he was as wax. 

“ I myself will draw,” she murmured softl}^ 
“My lord is weary and warm. Let him rest 
in the shade while I shall do mine oWn labor, 
then let him come with me to my father’s 
house. The day will be long and hot, but in 
our poor habitation the air is always cool and 
grateful, and I will pull fresh figs, and bring 
the milk of goats for the refreshment of my 
lord.” 

“Na}^ maiden, not so,” responded the 
Israelite, the while his eyes devoured the 
beauty of her graceful form, and dwelt lin- 
geringly on the small, white, sandaled foot 
which ever and anon peeped out from under- 


A DREAM OF PAST LOVE-LOOKS 45 

neath the flowing white robe which veiled her 
limbs and swayed lightly in the wind as she 
bent down to the well with her empty vessels 
and rose with them filled to the brim, the 
drops sparkling on her white skin and rosy 
finger-nails, innocent of all save natural color- 
ing; but even as he spoke he felt his heart 
yielding within him. Yet answered he bravely 
once more, and said: “I come from a far 
country, maiden, and am seeking to buy grain. 
My provender is in the bag which hangs from 
my beast, enough both for him and myself. 
Why should I trespass upon thy father’s hos- 
pitality, seeing that he is an alien, and of a 
strange race?” 

Now the maiden’s eyes had flashed brightly 
at the word ‘‘alien,” yet answered she gently: 

“Am I even an alien? In our country we 
are wont to call all strangers friends and 
kin ; but I have heard that it is not so in Israel. 
But if my lord desires to purchase grain, 
let him still come to my father’s house, and 
he shall have it and to spare; our granaries 
are filled.” 

And so constraining him, she talked, and 
he, already deep in the waters of love for her, 
yielded, and went with her to her father’s 


46 THE STORY OF A DREAM 

house. And all that afternoon, long and 
sweet as only an Assyrian day can be, he sat 
with her in the shade of the house-vine, to 
await the coming of her father from the fields, 
and she waited on him with milk, and honey, 
and fruit, and sweet herbs. 

And it came to pass that she so enticed him, 
albeit only with her sweet maidenliness and 
courtesy, that when he had agreed to pur- 
chase his grain from her father, and had par- 
taken of the evening meal with them, he 
forbore to start on his journe}’ while the cool 
dews of night were falling, as he had thought 
to do, and remained under her father’s roof 
all night. 

For a little space he wandered with her in 
the dewy, moonlit field, and when the youth 
to whom she was betrothed came and asked 
speech of her, he looked askance at him, and 
the anger of the youth was kindled so that he 
hated the Israelite, and spoke ill of him to the 
maiden ; but the maiden allowed it not. 

“ He is a stranger, and our guest,” she said, 
“and we have broken bread and eaten salt 
with him ; I will not hear him evilly en- 
treated.” 

And the youth left her in sadness, and went 


A DREAM OF PAST DOVE-LOOKS 47 

out into the field to watch his flock with a 
heavy heart, for he feared that the maiden 
had said in her heart, “I love this stranger, 
even already,” and he himself loved her 
sorely. 

And the maiden gave no thought to her 
betrothed, but ever as she lay, waking or 
sleeping, on her couch, listening to the gentle 
lullabys of the wind and streams and night 
birds, she dreamed of the stranger, and he, 
too, dreamed of her. But his heart was 
troubled within him, for he thought, “I love 
her, and she is an Ishmaelite. How can I 
take an Ishmaelitish maiden to my father’s 
house r” 

Yet in the morning, when she arose early, 
as was her custom, and went to the well to 
draw fresh water for the morning meal, and 
to milk the goats, he rose too, and wandered 
through the sweet dawning day with her, talk- 
ing of man}^ things but thinking of one only, 
— his love for her. 

And the 3^outh to whom she was betrothed 
saw them, and his heart was bitter within 
him, and he prayed for the stranger to con- 
tinue his journey that morning. 

But the stranger did not so: the rather he 


48 THE STORY OF A DREAM 

Stayed, for many days, and his heart and the 
maiden’s grew more together each moment. 

And when I had dreamed this dream within 
a dream I awoke, and took up the burden of 
the day and my life, witli a heavy heart. 

And in the dream of a life, which I am re- 
lating to you, I next dreamed this conversa- 
tion between the aunt of Doroth}^, and a 
young man who had come to visit her. 



I 



CHAPTER V. 


A DREAM OF A RIVAl’s HAPPINESS. 

‘‘Auntie,” said the young lawyer, Arthur 
Brampton, leaning forward toward his listener 
and hostess, and speaking with an earnestness 
very unusual with him, whom fortune had so 
favored that never in his whole life had he 
wanted a thing long enough and badly enough 
to feel the need of striving for it, “Auntie, I 
have a great favor to ask of you.” 

“Well, my dear,” was the lady’s answer, 
as she gentl}^ smoothed the waves of snowy 
white hair back from her pale, unwrinkled, 
aristocratic face, with a gesture habitual to, 
and characteristic of her, “Well, my dear, 
there are few things within the bounds of rea- 
son that 1 would not do for you, as you al- 
ready know. .1 would do much for the sake 
of the love I have always borne you, but more 
for the reason you know of. A son of your 
49 


50 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


father’s has but to ask from me, and I am 
ready to give.” 

Her fine eyes were a little dim with unshed 
tears, and there was a softness and sadness in 
her smile which her society friends would 
have found it difficult to associate with the 
stately lady who was the autocrat of her set, 
and given, as the world believed, to yield her 
will to that of no one else in. the world. 

I, Father Bertram, the poor young priest 
of St. Clement’s church, could have told a 
different tale; I alone, perhaps, of all the 
world could have told how truly humble she 
was at heart, how tender her nature, how 
true her instincts for right and wrong, but I 
knew all this by virtue of my office, and I 
knew, too, how the world and its friends 
judge by the exterior alone, and are always 
convinced that a “society woman” is heart- 
less. Shame on such a mistaken idea! No 
truer, tenderer, sweeter souls live behind the 
robes of the good sisters of charity than are 
hidden away beneath the costly dresses of 
many a “ leader of fashion.” Many a good deed 
do they do, all unknown and unseen of men, 
and man}^ a dollar they give away from a 
charity-purse quite apart from that which fur- 


A DREAM OF A RIVAL’s HAPPINESS 5 I 

nishes the funds which head subscription-lists 
and call forth newspaper panegyrics. 

But to return to Mrs. Stonehenge. I knew 
that her cold manner was only manner, but 
I knew how it repelled many, and how the 
heart of her niece Dorothy pined, hungered, 
starved, for the love her aunt was so ready to 
bestows had she only known how to express 
it. God help the dumb souls which cannot 
utter their feelings, and those which are com- 
pelled by the stern law of Karma or Fate to 
speak in a strange language, not understood 
of men, and bitterly hard to learn. 

At the mention of his father, which Mrs. 
Stonehenge had made before I went off on 
one of the ecstatic protests against the thin gs 
which are, which men are wont to sneer at 
and repress by all means, fearing that they 
would learn to speak too plainly and uncover 
the sore hearts of their fellows, but which are 
always allowed in this land of freedom and 
dreams, — at this reference to the father he 
had never known, the young man flushed, and 
answered lovingly: “Dear friend, do I not 
know all that? Have I not proved your 
friendship and affection man}^ times, and es- 
pecially when my will has come in contact 


52 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


and conflict with that of my mother’s hus- 
band, whom, much as you know I respect 
and love him, I can never agree with for long, 
do I not know how kind you are always to 
me? But the favor I am going to ask is so 
great that I hesitate to speak of it even to 


you.” 

He caught his breath sharply, stopped, and 
rising, walked to the window and stood gaz- 
ing out into the street, while his friend, to 
whom he had been almost a son in duty, and 
more than a son in the affection which existed 
between them, looked at him anxiously. 

Long years before, she had loved his father, 
but through a misunderstanding both had 
married others, and when the man had died, 
soon after the birth of his son, he had com- 
mended the baby to her love, and bespoken 
her special care in case, as he felt certain, his 
wife, should marry again. Time, a very short 
time at that, had proven the truth of his sur- 
mise, and from the day of his mother’s second 
wedding, the boy had spent more than half 
his time with Mrs. Stonehenge. She was 
his godmother, a fact which she regarded 
as giving her a sacred right to care for him, 
and the only sorrow he had ever given her 


A DREAM OF A RIVAL ’s HAPPINESS 53 

was when, in his college days, he had abjured 
Christianity and gone over to the ranks of 
agnosticism. 

Her heart had nearly broken when he 
wrote and frankly told her of this, but her 
love had held firm, and the affection between 
them was far stronger than that which existed 
between the young man and his own mother, 
who was a kindly, light-hearted, merry-faced 
woman, oddly at variance with her grave, 
earnest husband and her brilliant son. 

She loved them both, would have died for 
them at times; but she was a creature of im- 
pulses, and she found it impossible to under- 
stand the strong tides of feeling which now 
and then carried them far away from her 
mentall}^ and spiritually. 

“My husband and my son are a Jong way 
above my mental plane,” she would some- 
times tell her intimates, with an undercurrent 
of sadness jarring through the careless words, 
•‘but his godmother understands Arthur, so 
I let her look after that side of him. My 
husband” (always with a whimsical smile) 
“adores, pities and despises me, and I love and 
reverence him, so we all get along beauti- 
tully.” 


54 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


.She was never jealous of Mrs. Stonehenge, 
although by fits and starts she longed passion- 
ately for the mother-love which she felt was 
denied her, and she had long ago resigned 
herself to hearing of his aspirations, successes 
and escapades, either through Mrs. Stone- 
henge, or after the latter had talked them 
over with her son. She had knowm for days, 
for Arthur was living at home at this time, 
that he had something on his mind, and had 
heard him announce that he would visit his 
auntie” — a loving terra of endearment he had 
given her in his childhood — that afternoon, 
with a strange wistfulness and sadness. 

“I shall know what is the matter with him 
to-morrow,” she said to herself, smiling with 
the unappreciated bravery and fortitude 
women show under the pin-pricks of hurt feel- 
ing which they have so often to bear, and- 
she resolutely dismissed the matter fiom her 
mind. 

Meanwhile the object of these two women’s 
love stood at the window and twisted his 
mustache fiercely and silently, and Mrs. 
Stonehenge watched him thoughtfully. 

He made no movement to return to her side 
or resume the conversation he had broken 


A DUKAM OF A RIVAl’s HAPPINESS 55 

off, SO presently, after considering what his 
request could possibly be to cause him such 
disquietude, and arriving at no satisfactory 
conclusion, she remarked tentatively, “It — 
it — isn’t about money, dear?” 

“Money!” he answered indignantly, draw- 
ing his handsome form to its full height of six 
feet two. “Do you think that money would 
worry me as I am worried to-day?” 

Money, from his disdain, might have been 
some utterly insignificant thing, utterly be- 
neath the conception of an intelligent mind, 
but Mrs. Stonehenge was by no means im- 
pressed with this noble scorn of that which 
Youth despises — and longs for — and Age is 
apt to cling to, having lost all else. 

“Then what is it, dear?” she asked, still 
more anxiously than before. “ Be reasonable, 
and tell me what troubles you.” 

The young man stooped to pick up a pin 
which lay on the carpet, and carefully brushed 
a speck of dirt from his shining patent leather 
shoe before replying, but at last he crossed 
the room again, drew up a footstool to the 
side of his friend, and taking her hand in his, 
whispered shamefacedly, “I want Dorothy.” 

Mrs. Stonehenge sat up straight, and looked 
at him in wonder and astonishment. 


56 THE STORY OF A DREAM 

“Dorothy!” she exclaimed. “Dorothy!” 
Then why in the world didn’t you say so, 
without all this fuss? What do you want 
with Dorothy?” 

The young man made no answer, unless 
his sudden pallor might have been taken as 
such, but he clasped his strong, brown hands 
firmly together, and knitted his brows as his 
listener repeated laughingly, thinking that he 
had planned a pleasure of some kind: 

“Well, confess. What mischief are you 
up to now ? What do you want Dorothy for?” 

Then the manhood of the human being at 
her side woke up suddenl}^ and cried aloud: 

“What do I want Dorothy for, auntie?” he 
queried, in a voice which made her tremble, 
it was so intense. “What does a man want a 
woman for? I want her for my wife.” 

Then, growing suddenly quiet and humble 
again, after the fashion of a lover, he said 
softly: “Auntie, I want her because I love 
her better than all the world. I know' I’m 
not good enough for her, not fit to marry 
her; no man is pure enough, good enough to 
marry an innocent girl, but I do love her so.” 

He w'as silent and Mrs. Stonehenge w'as 
silent too, for a moment, dumb with surprise. 


A DREAM OF A RIVAl’s HAPPINESS 57 

Then she asked, in a curiously repressed 
voice, “And Dorothy? Does she love you ?” 

The 3’oung man lifted his face from the 
covering hands in which he had buried it, 
and answered, pale with emotion: 

“I really don’t know, auntie; she’s so shy 
and innocent I can’t tell. But — I hope so.” 

Mrs. Stonehenge smiled in spite of the sad- 
ness which had swept over her at this sudden 
announcement of her beloved’s love for her 
niece, as she answered, “Well, my boy, if 
you hope so, I think it must be so in part 
anyway, although you have been so intimate 
with Dorothy in the short time she has been 
with me, that her regard for you might be so 
purely and completely liking, that she has 
shown it openly, having nothing to hide ; still, 
I do not know,” she finished in a low voice. 

“What do you think?” asked the lover ear- 
nestly. “What do you think? You mustknow 
something of her feelings.” 

“I know nothing of her feelings,” was the 
sadly murmured answer, as a tear fell on the 
lap of the speaker, “ absolutely nothing. You 
know how unfortunate I am about inspiring 
love in the people near me, with the excep- 
tion of yourself, dear,” — a sunny smile break- 


S8 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


ing through the tears which fell slowly, 
reluctantly, as they ever do when youth is 
past,-^“and sometimes I think I made a mis- 
take in allowing Dorothy to remain aw'ay at 
school so long. She grew' aw'ay from me, 
if, indeed, she ever loved me, and I know 
less, far less, of her feelings than your mother, 
W'ith whom she is in complete sympathy, to 
say nothing of 3- our father, whom she is learn- 
ing to love very dearly.” 

“Yes, is it not delightful,” interrupted 
her listener, “how' she loves them both? And 
they think the world of her. How lovely it 
will be w'hen we are married! if, indeed,” 
(mournfull3') “ she says 3'es,” — the confidence 
of love fluctuating to despair after its manner, 
— “but really, auntie, I feel as though I should 
die unless I can have her.” 

“Other men have felt that wa\" before, my 
darling,” responded the other, “and have 
lived through it, but I sincerely hope3'ou ma}' 
not have this experience. And now, Arthur, 
to speak of a serious matter, if Dorothy should 
return your affection, what of religion? She 
is an earnest Christian, as you know, and 
you — do you think 3'ou, with your material- 
istic theories, which, however satisfying they' 


A DREAM OF A rival’s HAPPINESS 59 

may be to a man, are empty and utterly inad- 
equate to satisfy the needs of a woman’s na- 
ture, — do you think that you are fit to have 
the care of, as a husband must have the care 
of a wife’s soul in one sense, through his in- 
fluence, — do you think 3^ou should have the 
care of a good girl’s soul? How would your 
different views coalesce when the glow and 
glory of the honeymoon is past? Would you 
be able to bear with what you term ‘her su- 
perstition,’ or would you,” regarding him 
sternly, “attempt to change her views to co- 
incide with your own, using the lever of love 
to uproot the strongest part of her nature?” 

Under her keen scrutiny the young man 
blushed, but he met her gaze firmly as he 
answered : “Auntie, I do not know about those 
things, I cannot tell. That I would love to 
have her think as I do I cannot deny, that I 
hate the very mention of that mediaeval young 
man whom you both revere so much, and to 
whom she tells me she ‘confesses,’ it would be 
foolish and false to contradict, but just what we 
should agree upon I have never considered. 
You know she knows nothing of my freedom 
as yet. I have not told her. I will trust 
love,” with a tender glance, “to find a way 
out of all such troubles.” 


6o 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


Mrs. Stonehenge said no more, but her face 
remained troubled, and it was with an effort 
that she changed the subject, seeing how use- 
less it was to discuss such matters with the 
self-willed darling of her heart, who was now 
fondling her hand in away which few women 
could have resisted, and asked: 

“But, my dear, how long has this been go- 
ing on ? How long have you loved Dorothy ?” 

“I don’t know, auntie,” w'as the frank 
answer, “I believe I loved her when she used 
to come here in the school holidays, and I 
know that I have loved her since she first came 
home to stay. But I’ll tell you how I found 
it out. You remember the day when some- 
body had brought a baby to visit you, and 
Dorothy sat in the window there holding it 
when I came in ?” 

Mrs. Stonehenge nodded, and he rose to 
his feet hastily, throwing back the dark hair 
which, by continually falling over his wdde, 
handsome forehead, annoyed and irritated 
him ; beginning to pace the room, actuated by 
the wild instinct which possesses all creatures 
who are experiencing the pangs of love, he 
went on : 

“Well, you know, I sat down by her, and 


A I)RE\M OF A rival’s HAPPINESS 6l 


she looked so sweet that day, auntie; she had 
on a little white dress, and her eyes were as 
bright as stars, and somehow, — I don’t 
know whether it was the baby, auntie,” 
(Mrs. Stonehenge smiled again; she did 
not think it was the baby) *‘or what it was I 
don’t know, but when I drew my chair close 
to her she smiled up at me, and held out her 
hand to bid me good-day. I had been away, 
you know. 

•‘And, auntie, as I touched her, I knew 
that I loved her, and I could hardly keep from 
taking her in my arms then and there. But 
there were people here, of course, and then 
she was so unconscious. But I can’t live 
without her, auntie; I 77ztcsl have her!” And 
he threw himself down on the stool again and 
yielded to an acute attack of lover’s despair. 

Mrs. Stonehenge was about to reply when 
a merry voice was heard lilting through the 
hall, and as it sang gaily, “For I will marry 
my own love, my own love, m}^ own love,” 
both started guiltily and looked at one another. 

“Oh, auntie,” the young man whispered, 
“oh, auntie, what if she should say no? Do 
you think she will ?” 

Somehow the lady did not think so, but she 


62 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


only said, “Hush.” Then speaking louder, 
as the girl parted the hangings of the door 
and stood looking at them with her sweet 
face dimpling and brimming over with glad- 
ness at some girlish joy, “Here she is to an- 
swer for herself. Dorothy, my dear,” as the 
girl perched upon the arm of her chair and 
slipped an arm around her neck, filled with a 
sudden spasm of tenderness which broke 
through the wall of coldness and pride which 
she had built around her heart to hide the 
agonies of love-hunger and desire for its ex- 
pression which sometimes reduced her to the 
depths of despair and made her doubt whether 
life was vvorth living, agonies which Mrs. 
Stonehenge never suspected but which Mrs. 
Brampton had somehow divined, and in which 
lay the keynote of their friendship, — as she 
did this, Mrs. Stonehenge continued, taking 
the small, dangling hand in hers, “ Dorothy, 
my dear, this boy here has been telling me a 
secret, asking a great gift of me. Can you 
guess what it was?” 

“Why, no, auntie,” was the laughing an- 
swer; but a moment later, some look, some 
instinct, some soul-telephone told her, and 
she blushed fierily, divinely red, and was silent. 


A DREAM OF A RIVAl’s HAPPINESS 6j 

Her head sank onto her aunt’s shoulder, with 
the desire for womanly sympathy every child 
of man feels in times of great happiness or 
strong emotion, and as Arthur tried vainly to 
control his voice, Mrs. Stonehenge lifted the 
drooping head, and looking into the fright- 
ened eyes she had to turn her neck so queerly 
to see, went on: “He wants to marry you, 
dear; what shall I say to him?'’ 

The eyes were completely hidden now by 
the sweeping lashes, and the red lips quivered, 
but as Arthur, determined to plead his cause, 
quietly freed her other hand and took it in 
both his, she sighed, paled again, and softly 
whispered, “Yes.” 

He sprang to her side, lifting her in his 
arms, and the older woman slipped from the 
room. 

She was wanted no longer, needed no more ; 
for the first time in his life the child of her 
adoption did not notice her departure, — the 
bird had learned the use of his wings and would 
iKed the help of his soul -mother no more. 

Mrs. Stonehenge was as glad in his "joy as 
only a woman, unselfish and tender, or an 
angel pure and spotless, can be glad in the 
joy of another, but her heart was sore with 


64 the story of a dream 

the pain of being supplanted, and not a few 
tears mingled with the prayers she said for 
the happiness of both her children, — the one 
who loved her less now than the one who 
could not love her because their natures did 
not understand each other, and the one she 
loved so dearly. There is a Gethsemane in 
every life, a time when we must all dree out 
our weird alone, and Mrs. Stonehenge had 
come to hers. 

And I, in this life-dream of mine, ah ! how I 
suffered when Dorothy told me, with blushes 
which broke my heart while they fired my 
love afresh, that she was engaged, and in the 
summer would be married! I did not know 
then that the man of her choice was an 
atheist, this pain was spared me at that time, 
spared me to come later and add the last 
straw to the load which killed me, the last 
thrust to the wounds which caused my heart 
to bleed to death, but I had an instinct against 
him, and this rendered it doubly hard to wish 
her happiness with another man, when I could 
not, by word or sign, tell or show her how 
much I longed for her love myself. 

I was glad, thankful, in my better moments, 


A DREAM OF A RIVAl’s HAPPINESS 65 

that she had not loved me in return as I loved 
her, since it was impossible that we should 
marry, but her innocent affection for me, so 
kindly and frequently expressed, as when she 
told me that she desired my blessing on her 
engagement because she “thought so much, 
so very much of me,” nearly broke down my 
composure. 

I left her abruptly then, retreating to the 
little sacristy which had been the scene of so 
many spiritual battles of late, battles so intense, 
so heart-rending that to have found the walls 
and floor bespattered with blood after one of 
these conflicts, the blood wrung from a tattered 
and pain-torn soul, would hardly have sur- 
prised me, — I retired, I say, to the sacristy, 
and knelt with my face buried in my hands 
until I fell asleep, and dreamed another dream 
within a dream. 

And this was the dream I dreamed. 


CHAPTER VI. 


A DREAM OF A BREAKING HEART. 

Again in my dream within the longer 
dream which is called of men a life, I was back 
in the ancient land of Assyria; again I saw 
that fair young damsel in close and loving 
communion with the man from the country 
of Israel ; again I watched them as they slowly, 
blissfully, learned ’the old, sweet, half-forgot- 
ten lesson which is so necessary to the happi- 
ness of the children of men, but which the 
humanity of to-day is striving so hard to 
eliminate from the curriculum of human 
knowledge ; but this time the moon was light- 
ing the sleeping earth. 

It lay 1 ike the blessing of God, or the kindly 
gentle touch of a good, pure woman on the 
green fields, white with the ungathered har- 
vest, and gleaming with flashing jewels of 
dew; it rested like a silvery garment on the 
brooks and streams, plashing softly as though 

GG 


A DREAM OF A BREAKING HEART 


they, too, were dreaming pleasant dreams of 
laughter and gladness; it lent added loveliness 
to the beauty of the maiden as she walked 
with the Israelite in the fields of her father. 

His strong, brown arm, uncovered to the 
cool refreshment of the summer night, was 
thrown lightly round her slender form; her 
head, freed from the sheltering, hiding dra- 
peries of the day, rested against his shoulder, 
and their faces were near together, even after 
the fashion and manner which is followed by 
the youth of this later day and generation. 

His countenance was red and glowing with 
the fierceness of the love he bore her, but hers 
was white and glistering, transfigured with 
the splendor of her worshiping affection. 
The dark, sweet tendrils of her hair curled 
around it like the tendrils of a grape vine 
around the choicest clusters of the fruit it 
bears; the round, snowy column of her throat 
supported it as the marble pillars of the tem- 
ple held it high above the earth in which it was 
planted. One small, strong, warm hand, 
trembling with the tumult of her heart, lay 
clasped in his, the other held back her white 
robe from the slender, sandaled foot, da mp 
with the moisture of the field, 


68 


tup: story OP' A dream 


And thus they wandered while her parents 
revSted, unconscious of her straying thus from 
the roof which should have sheltered her; 
and from the hill behind, the youth to whom 
she was betrothed watched her, and there was 
murder in his heart. 

“She is mine own,” he murmured, as he 
forbore to care for the ewes and lambs in thus 
thinking of the girl to whom his soul was 
turned, but for whom he hungered in vain. 
“She is mine own, and promised to me, and 
shall I see this stranger steal her from me, 
without a blow?” And he was very wroth. 
But when he would have rushed down upon 
them and made war' upon the Israelite, some- 
thing not in himself held him back, so that he 
went not down. “I will trust in God,” he 
murmured yet again, “and He will right my 
cause,” and in prayer^he forgot the sorrow 
which rent his soul. Yet turned he his face 
so that he saw not their happiness, and he 
knew hot when the first embrace of love was 
passed between them. 

For it came to pass that the Israelite bent 
lower toward the maiden presently, and his 
voice was as that of a cooing dove as he spake 
softly to her after this fashion: 


A DREAM OF A BREAKING HEART 


“Maiden,” he whispered, while she shrunk 
but little ciway, and did not resist nor refuse 
the pressure of his embracing arm, “Maiden, 
knowest thou not that I love thee?” 

Now the maiden, although she had suffered 
him to love her, and although she knew in 
her heart that she loved him, and him only, 
yet, as is the manner of women, she was 
troubled at the thought of the youth to whom 
she was betrothed, and she answered not. 

Then the Israelite spake to her again, and 
that which she heard was this: 

“And dost thou not love me?” he asked, 
his lips quivering with emotion, “dost thou 
not feel that thine heart is tender toward me?” 

Still she answered not, only she drew a lit- 
tle farther from him, and still he constrained 
her, saying, “Oh, mine own, my beloved, and 
the keeper of my soul, speak to thy servant! 
Tell me, mine heart’s treasure, dost thou not 
love me?” 

Then she answered, her voice choked with a 
torrent of happy, yet foreboding tears, “Thou 
knowest that I love thee; have I not stolen 
from my bed to wander here with thee, have 
I not disobeyed the parents who bore me, and 
been false to my betrothed, for thy sake? 


70 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


But thou knowest that I cannot wed thee, for 
I am promised to another.” 

Now the man of Israel had never dreamed 
of marrying the maiden, for he said in his 
heart continually, “ How could I take an Ish- 
maelitish maiden to my father’s house?” but 
his soul was too weak for him to tell her this, 
seeing how ready she was to sacrifice the 
traditions of her race, yea, even the love of 
her kindred for the love of him ; so did he 
dissemble, and said : “And wilt thou not break 
thine oath for my sake? What is thy betrothed 
to thee, seeing that thou lovest me? Promise 
me that thou wilt be mine and mine only.” 
Yet did he not think to marry her, only to 
hold her his own for the joy of the moment. 

And the maiden, her tears dried by his 
ardent words, yielded, and promised to be 
his, and he gathered her in his arms, and she 
knew nothing but his love and the passion of 
his embraces. 

And when the day dawned, the maiden, 
pale with strong and mingled emotions and 
with the languor left by a sleepless night, 
stole back to her father’s house, — and alas! 
she was a virgin no more. And her heart 
was heavy within her, but the heart of the 


A DREAM OF A BREAKING HEART 


71 


Israelite was filled with joy, for he thought: 

‘‘Now, indeed, by the God of Israel, is she 
mine, and mine only. Yet, when I must 
leave her” (for he thought to depart when 
the harvesting was done), “will she return to 
her betrothed, and he, poor fool, will receive 
her, being mad for love of her, and this 
wrong which I have done will be hid from 
the eyes of m}^ people. Yet, would I could 
espouse her, could hold her mine always, but 
— how could I take an Ishmaelitish maiden to 
my father’s house?” 

And he knew not that for all the evil which 
men do, must they suffer, and he considered 
not the sorrow of the maiden when he should 
depart. 

And the youth to whom the maiden was 
betrothed rose from his knees, when the 
sheep began to bleat in the gray light of the 
morning, and his heart, too, was sad, and 
rebellious also. And as he went down the 
hill carrying the lame lamb which the maiden 
had loved, he said: “Oh, would to God that 
I could seize that which is mine own! Would 
to God that I and the maiden were already 
married! Yet, surely will she love me when 
she is mine own, and the summer will soon 


72 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


be over. Yet, — oh thou God of my fathers! 
do thou fight for me; I trust to Thee, thou 
Lord of Justice!” And he knew not that he 
was already undone. 

And when I had dreamed this dream, lo, 
I awoke, and my heart was sad within me. 
Yet I knew not that it was because of the 
dream, and many nights and many days fol- 
lowing did I dream like dreams, yet under- 
stand them not. But my soul grew more sad 
and dreary day by day, and although I longed 
for and loved the dream called Life, yet did 
I also long for the dreams which came to me 
while I slept, and they came to me more and 
more, until I scarce knew which was the Life- 
dream and which the visions of the nights. 

Yet in my Life-dream I put my whole soul 
and it went on from day to day, until — the end. 
And next my Life-dream told me this follow- 
ing episode. 


.CHAPTER VII. 


A DREAM OF APPRO A.CHING SEPARATION. 

After Dorothy told me of her engagement, 
the dream which was Life became but sad 
to me, for what is so bitter as a vain struggle? 
And I could not conquer myself. All day, 
all night, sleeping or waking, at the altar or 
in my bed, or on my knees, I thought only of 
her, and day by day my love grew stronger. 
Ofttimes I was fain to leave my work, to seek 
a new field in a strange land, but I was not 
fit to teach innocent heathen with my own 
heart so rebellious, and then, too, I would 
not run away. Neither had I the relief of 
telling my grief to another, for when I had 
confessed my sin to my bishop, he only smiled, 
and told me to “ marry the girl by all means.” 

Shocked, startled, horrified, I sprang to my 
feet, and the gentle, weak old man continued : 
“My son, your work will be just as acceptable 
to God, married, and this battle is too much for 
73 


74 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


your strength; it will hinder your work far 
more than marriage.” 

When I could speak I told him that the 
lady whom I so sinfully loved was already 
engaged, and he answered, “Well then, I will 
send you away from Chicago; you shall go 
to a country town and forget her in new sur- 
roundinofs.” 

He meant well, but I would not leave my 
parish ;I was still strong enough to refrain from 
deserting, from lowering my colors, and when 
I was thus turned away from the bishop, — 
for he said, with a sad shake of his head, “ Well, 
my son, go your own way, but if you fail 
come to me, and I will still send you away,” — 
when I was thus left to myself, I turned, as 
do all the sons of men when sorrow is near, 
to a woman for comfort and help. 

She was the one woman whom I had al- 
ways trusted, the one whose influence I had 
never feared, but now she, also, failed me. 

“You are leading a forlorn hope, my dear,” 
she said, laying a kindly hand on mine, after 
I had told her all, for she was one of the 
natural confessors of mankind, and to her 
every one told tales of sin and sorrow. “Be 
warned in time, and don’t try to fight against 


A DREAM OF APPROACHING SEPARATION 75 

love. If you. can marry the lady honorably, 
do so; if not, flee from temptation, and go 
awa 3 ^ You will never conquer love.” 

“I za/7/ conquer it,” I cried, stung to anger 
by her words, which echoed the fear which, 
down at the bottom of my heart, oppressed me. 
“1 will conquer it. A man’s will is stronger 
than his weakness; and have I not the assist- 
ance of the Holy Spirit?” 

I spoke loudly and my eyes burned, but 
she answered me gently and unmoved: 

“The Holy Spirit is Love,” she said, “and 
to fight against it is wrong, foolish. Yield to 
your love, let time purify it of all its lower 
qualities, and when the worst pain is over, the 
experience will give you a wondrous power 
over the hearts of men.” 

Her voice trembled slightly, but she was 
winding and unwinding the ribbon at her 
waist, and I did not know whether the falter- 
ing might not be due to this exertion, which 
swayed her body slightly every time she 
loosed the ribbon. 

“How do you know the (ruth of what you 
say?” I demanded eagerly. “How can 
weakness give strength?” 

“ Does not strength ever proceed from weak- 


76 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


ness?” she counter-questioned. “Was not the 
strength of the Savior born of weakness, and 
who that has never known temptation can 
sway others as he who, tempted, has con- 
quered, and risen above the pain of the 
wounds received?” 

Somehow I was indefinably comforted, yet 
still I was unwilling to accept her theories, 
and I went on : “ But it is wrong for me, a sworn 
celibate, to love; how can I yield to my love, 
when it can never be more than a dream the 
very thought of which it is wrong to indulge ?” 

She smiled, satiricall}^ for her, yet gently 
as well, and her tone was tender, no less than 
deprecating as she answered: 

“My friend, you are arguing from false 
premises; it is never wrong to love. The 
manner of loving, the quality of the affection 
may be at fault, but love itself, pure, unselfish 
love, is from God, and is always Good.” 

“But it cannot be right,” I argued, “when 
it is forbidden, and forbidden it is for me, as 
you know.” 

“Who forbade it?” she asked earnestly, 
rising from her easy chair and confronting 
me. “Who forbade it? Not the Christ whom 
you try to serve, but his mistaken followers. 
No, do not interrupt me, hear me out. 


A DREAM OF APPROACHING SEPARATION 77 

“When you came to me, years ago, and 
told me, the only woman friend you have ever 
had, that you purposed becoming a celibate, I 
warned you then of your danger. I told you 
that for a man to fancy that because he builds 
a fence, not even a wall, but a frail fence, 
around an inflammable nature, it will be safe 
from danger when fire is applied, is worse 
than foolish, it is criminal. The fire will 
burn all the fiercer, the more intense!}^ because 
of the confining fence, and the latter will only 
serve to keep out those who would assist in 
extinguishing it. 

“This is what you have done; you, a man 
to whom love is a necessity, deprived by fate 
of the love of kindred, thought to enslave 
your heart to a loveless life. Don’t you know 
that a slave, when once the chain is broken, 
is ten times more unruly than a reasonable 
being ? 

“You must yield to your heart, or it will 
eat itself out.” 

I tried to speak, to stem the torrent of her 
eloquence, but she would not listen, and with 
a sweeping wave of her hand she began 
again : 

“Don’t look at me so sternly; I mean no 


78 THE STORY OF A DREAM 

disrespect to you or your religion. I quite 
understand that where a priest is to hear 
confessions he must of necessity remain un- 
married, since, if he did not tell his wife of the 
secrets he heard, his penitents would be apt to 
believe that he did, and I am not decrying 
confession. In some cases, and for some 
natures, it is a needed ordeal, and in the ab- 
stract it is a good moral therapeutic, but3^ou 
were, you are^ the wrong kind of man to em- 
brace so austere a faith, and, my friend,” she 
leaned toward me, placed her hand upon my 
shoulder, and gazed searchingly into my face, 
‘‘my friend, believe me, the religion which 
forbids love is a gigantic mistake. Love is 
of God, for God is Love.” 

I rose to my feet indignantly ; this was more 
than I could stand. 

“Do not speak evil of the Church to me!” 
I exclaimed. 

She threw up her hands impatiently, 
wearily. 

“Oh, the Church, the Church!” she said, 
scornfully. “Always the Church! Never the 
‘little ones’ whom the Christ considered so 
precious, never the good of the individual, 
always ‘the Church!’ I am u Christian, or at 


A DREAM OF APPROACHING SEPARATION _ 79 

least I try to be one, but save me from the 
calm arrogance of attributing all good to the 
Church. Do you think that'the tender Christ 
would consider the dignity of the church a 
moment, were it weighed in the balance with 
a human heartache? I fancy not; remember 
what he said of the edges of phylacteries, and 
the outside of the cup and platter. Which is 
the worst, to openly forswear your vow of 
celibacy and admit that you love like other 
men, or to carry a lie about in your life to 
nullify the good you try so hard to do? What 
is that but being a whited sepulcher?” 

I was angry now, so angry that I could 
hardly speak, but I tried to articulate sternly, 
and I straightened my form as I had not done 
since my ordination (for, thinking to prevent 
pride, I had habitually bowed my head, and 
acquired a permanent stoop in my shoulders), 
as I angrily told her: 

“I came to you for comfort and help, but 
all you offer me is ridicule of my most revered 
beliefs!” Then, in my manly egotism and 
cowardice, I turned to scorn and reproached 
her with: “It is the old story of ‘the woman 
tempted me’ again, as ever, in the lives of 
men; why will women use their influence for 
so poor an end ?” 


8o 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


When I had said this I was immediately 
ashamed of myself, and I looked for her to 
address me in anger, but she only smiled 
pityingly. 

‘‘Oh, foolish boy!” she said, “oh, foolish 
boy, to think that in your short life you have 
had time to know or understand women. Wiser 
men than you know that to comprehend the 
mysteries of one woman’s nature is the work of 
years, and you who have never known, really 
known any woman besides myself, think that 
you can say what ‘all women’ do or feel. 
Oh, foolish boy! ‘Man is a fool,’ says the 
Spanish proverb, but ‘Man is an egotist’ would 
be nearer to the truth in my opinion. The 
sum of a man’s ignorance can generally be 
measured by the amount of his fancied knowl- 
edge !” 

She was angiy too, now, and I was so 
incensed by the contempt, but little veiled, in 
her tone, that I rose to go. 

“Good-bye,” I said stiffly. “I am sorry I 
troubled you, but I trusted to your long 
friendship for me.” 

“I never was a truer friend to you than I 
am now,” she answered, calmly, even a little 
bitterly, “and I meet the reception which is 


A DREAM OF APPROACHING SEPARATION 8 1 


SO often accorded to the friendship which will 
not take its color, charneleon-like, from the 
changing opinions of the one who inspires it. 
When I say to you, ‘Forget your vow,’ the 
vow which should never have been made, at 
least until your nature was more seasoned ; 
yield to the love which is God-sent, God-given, 
to teach you a lesson which you will not learn, 
a lesson of forbearance and charity for the 
faults which you, in your cold perfection, 
find it hard to even tolerate, you who are, in 
spirit, thanking God even now that you are 
not as other men; when I say to you that it 
is useless to fight against love, I tell you the 
truth, and you will not accept it.” 

Her cheeks were flushed, her lips trembling, 
her eyes shining like stars, but her manner 
was quiet, and her voice persistently hushed 
to its usual low, clear sound. 

“ How do you know it is the truth ?” 1 burst 
out, and she looked at me strangely, before 
replying: 

“Because I have learned in the one school 
which admits of no mistakes,” she said, with 
a sound of tears running through the plaintive 
words, “the school of experience, in which 
even fools learn at last.” 


82 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


For a brief moment she gazed full at me; 
then it was I who, blushing, turned away my 
eyes, for I felt that I had caught a glimpse 
of the hidden chamber of a soul. I had a 
fleeting remembrance of once hearing that she, 
in her youth, had loved a man who had jilted 
her, and I knew instinctively that she had 
suffered all that T was now going through, 
and that her knowledge was indeed of the 
kind which is worth having. 

“Forgive me,” I murmured, but she asked, 
rather haughtily, “For what? Your hastiness, 
and unwillingness to protit by my advice? I 
too, should ask pardon, for. pressing it upon 
you. Let us forgive mutually.” 

I would have spoken upon the subject of 
her love, but she so impressed me b}^ her calm 
dignity that I could not; so, shaking her 
hand formally, I bowed and left her presence. 

And so we parted, I and the woman who, 
in the days of my lonely boyhood, when a 
boarding school had been my only home, had 
taken pity upon me and invited me to spend 
my holidays at her home, together with her 
nephew, who was my Fidus Achates. And 
when, years afterwards, the nephew had died, 
she had put me in his vacant place, and be- 


A DREAM OF APPROACHING SEPARATION 83 

come the mother of my soul, if not of my body. 

And now she had failed me, as I bitterly 
thought, and my heart was very hard and stern 
when I thought of her, and I resolved, cloak- 
ing my anger under the garb of duty, to visit 
her no more. She had wounded my feelings, 
my sensibilities, I angrily thought, but now, 
up here, I know that it was onl}^ my vanity 
and mistaken sense of dignity which suffered. 

From her house I went to that of Mrs. 
Stonehenge, for the argument with Miss Al- 
ford had given the false strength of excite- 
ment to my nature, and, foolhardy as ever, 
I rushed to face the foe. 

Dorothy herself opened the door to me, and 
my heart throbbed quick at sight of her. 

It beat more quickly still when she said, 
laying gentle hands on the hat and coat which 
I declined to surrender,^ Indeed you must, 
dear Father, for I want you to meet my — my 
— Mr. Brampton,” with a glorious blush he 
is in the parlor, and you must learn to know 
him at once.” 

I would have somehow avoided this at an- 
other time, but now, with the false strength 
upholding me, I felt the afflatus which com- 
pels wounded soldiers to rush madly into dan- 


84 the story of a dream 

ger, the foolish heroism which makes them 
mad, and I acquiesced, 

A moment later she led me into the room, 
and in answer to her murmur of “Arthur” 
a tall, fine, handsome fellow rose to his feet 
and faced us. 

“Arthur,” she said, joyously, “you must 
be sure to like Father Bertram, because I love 
him so much.” Dear heart, if she had onl}^ 
known how her words were like cutting 
swords! 

“Father Bertram,” she went on, “make 
up your mind immediately that you like Mr. 
Brampton fully as much as you do me.” And 
thus she chattered until Mrs. Stonehenge came 
downstairs. 

All this time I had been fancying that the 
young man’s carriage towards me had a dis- 
tinct air of hostilit}^ and when he at last 
spoke I knew that this was so in truth, and 
not a vagary of my excited brain. 

“I suppose,” he said, contemptuously re- 
garding my bent form and clerical garb from 
his lazy, well-dressed height, as he leaned 
gracefully against the mantel, admiringly 
watched by Dorothy, “I suppose, Mr. Ber- 
tram, that you are responsible for all the 


A DREAM OF APPROACHING SEPARATION 85 

foolish things which Dorothy believes and 
practices in the way of religion.” 

He spoke laughingly, and I knew that both 
of his other hearers fancied he was joking, 
but my sensitive ear recognized the sarcasm 
underneath the veil of amusement, and it 
grated upon me to see the air of proprietor- 
ship he assumed, and hear him say “Doro- 
thy” in that careless way; I sometimes whis- 
pered her name as I would have done that of 
a saint. So that when I spoke it was stiffly, 
and with a coldness which made both Dorothy 
and her aunt glance quickly at me. 

“I prefer to be called by my title. Father 
Bertram,” I began, but he interrupted me 
with, “ Oh, certainly, certainly, if you like; 
Father Bertram by all means, but the term 
seems ridiculous when speaking of a man so 
young as yourself.” 

He smiled satirically, and in a moment I 
knew the reason of his bitterness. He was 
jealous of my influence over Dorothy; she 
had probably talked much of me, dear little 
child, and his love had taken the alarm. 

But even while I thus explained it to my- 
self, I vaguely wondered why I myself 
should feel so unreasonable a desire to annoy 


86 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


him, why a feeling so like that of hate should 
taunt me whenever I looked at his hateful, 
smiling face. Now, in the .land of dreams, I 
know why; our spirits recognized each other 
as ancient foes, and prepared for battle. 

But in spite of these thoughts, these in- 
stincts,! answered him with a calmness which 
made his anger more apparent. 

‘‘The Church knows nothing of age,” I 
said in my most clerical manner; “the title 
of Father does not refer to material, but to 
spiritual things.” 

“Oh, indeed,” he sneered, with an intona- 
tion which made Mrs. Stonehenge glance 
warningly from himself to Dorothy and back 
again, “Oh, indeed; very pretty, I am sure.” 

I felt my blood growing warm, and my 
temper rising, but I continued calmly: 

“I hope that I have not taught Miss Doro- 
thy” (I could not resist accenting the prefix, 
although I always called her by her name) 
“anything which is foolish; I certainly have 
tried to teach her much that is good and 
right.” 

“In my opinion she would be better un- 
taught,” he responded, white with a sudden 
anger; “a good girl knows what is right her-- 


A DREAM OF APPROACHING SEPARATION 87 

self, and I have a very poor idea of priest- 
craft.” 

“Fortunately for the vv'orld, your opinions 
are not shared by the good girls themselves,” 
I retorted, still quietly, but. too angry to still 
the trembling of my hands, a fact which he 
triumphantly noticed, and gloried in, I knew, 
and* thus we continued until Mrs. Stonehenge 
put an end to the duel of words by announc- 
ing that dinner would soon be served, and that 
I must remain. She would take no refusal, 
and indeed I offered but a slight one, for I 
longed for another chance to meet my enem}^ 
as I now openly called him to myself, and I 
could see by the determined look of our hostess 
that she would allow no more discussion for 
the present. 

“Sing us something, dear,” she said to 
Dorothy, and the girl, with the ready compli- 
ance with the wishes of others which made 
her so winsome, went to the piano at once. 

She had often sung tome,*andI now asked 
her to render a favorite of mine, but at the 
same moment her lover broke in with, 
“Sing that song I love, dear,” and with a 
pretty smile she said she would give us both. 

But she sang his song first, of course, and 


88 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


while she was still singing joyously, her voice 
rising now and then into a perfect rapture of 
gladness, “Oh, thou art all the world to me, 
sweetheart, sweetheart, sweetheart,” he asked 
for another, and she, forgetting me, sang it 
to him. 

I did not mind, for the words of her song 
had thrilled through me and I was lost to all 
else. 

“All the world tome, all the world to me,” 
I repeated vaguely to myself, and Arthur 
Brampton, hearing the muttered ejaculation, 
laughed and remarked: “Father Bertram” 
(oh, the maddening derision of histone!) “is 
so charmed with ‘Sweetheart,’ Dorothy, that 
he is saying the words over again.” 

“It A a pretty thing,” she said sweetly, 
flashing a kind glance at me, then went on 
singing, while I, upset by the tumult of con- 
tending emotions boiling up within me, re- 
verted to my own sad thoughts. For the time 
being I had forgotten the Church, my vow, 
everything but my love for her, my love, — and 
my despair, 

“All the world,” a3^e, — and a lost world. 
Tears came into my eyes, tears which I bent 
my' head to conceal from the cruel gaze of my 


A DREAM OF APPROACHING SEPARATION 89 

opposer, and my heart was very full when — 

‘‘Dinner is served, madame!” was an- 
nounced, and we all went to the dining-room. 

At the table it was the same, — open scorn 
on his part, repressed anger on mine, until 
Dorothy, with the grief a girl feels when two 
of her friends will not “make up,” grew 
pensive, and looked reproachfully from one to 
the other. 

“Nobody is as nice as usual to-night,” she 
said plaintively, as she left us, in cornpan}" 
with her aunt. “Now don't be long, for I 
want you to sing for me. Father,” (I always 
did so when dining at the house, which hap- 
pened so frequently that it was an odd series 
of accidents which had prevented a former 
meeting between Brampton and myself) 
“and Arthur,” with a prettjq pleading look, 
“I want you because — I want you.” 

Her voice was a sweet whisper as she 
finished, and I could have killed him for the 
calmness of his glance as he received her 
hand, which she laid lightly on his as he held 
the door open for her. 

“No, I won’t be long, little girl,” he an- 
swered, smiling, “your friend and I have but 
little in common.” 


90 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


“Then will you excuse me if I go with the 
ladies,” I asked, “since I do not smoke, and 
this being Friday I shall drink no wine?” 

“Why, of course you can’t go,” he said 
with the familiaiity I found so unpleasant 
“you must sta}^ and talk of Dorothy with me.” 

Again I winced at his careless use of her 
name, but he did not appear to notice it, and 
went on, as he leaned back in his chair, pois- 
ing his lighted cigar lightly between his 
slender, well-shaped fingers, and pouring out 
a very generous glass of wine. “Perhaps you 
will take a glass of seltzer, since your re- 
ligious scruples” (another half-concealed 
sneer) “do not allow of anything stronger.” 

This I declined, saying that I preferred 
plain water, then, following his lead, I too 
leaned back in my chair, and waited, with 
what quietness I could command, for the 
attack which I knew he contemplated. 

Nor was it long in coming. Presently he 
blew the smoke daintily away from between 
us, and looking sternly at me, he inquired 
with seeming lightness: “Do I understand 
that Dorothy makes confessions to 3’ou?” 

It was my turn now to tease him, so I took 
my time about replying; then, just as he 


A DREAM OF APPROACHING SEPARATION 9 1 

could control his impatience no longer, I said 
haughtily: “Miss Dorothy is certainly one 
of my penitents, but it is a matter which con- 
fessors do not care to discuss. Indeed they 
have no riglit to do so.” 

“Indeed!” he sneered, “and do they have 
the right to presume upon the foolishness of 
their ‘penitents’” (his face like a smiling 
devil’s) “to give advice upon other sub- 
jects?’* 

“We try not to ‘presume,’” I told him, 
coldly, “and I think we seldom do.” Then 
the instinct of cruelty getting the better of my 
good nature, “It is true that we often receive 
confidences outside the confessional and know 
much of the affairs of our penitents.” 

He dropped his cigar, sitting up straight 
and clenching his hand as he fairly hissed, 
“And does Dorothy tell you her private af- 
fairs — about myself, for instance?” 

“She has not, so far,” I replied, wickedly 
delighted at the result of my revenge for his 
unneeded insults (ah, if I had known how, 
in the days which were yet to come, he would 
revenge himself upon me for all the past 
wrongs he had received at my hands!) “but 
she is very ready to talk of you.” 


92 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


The anger died out of his face and was re- 
placed by a malicious amusement. 

“I shall try to prevent such a thing oc- 
curring,” he said quietly, so quietly that the 
contrast between his present manner and that 
of a few moments ago was very marked, 
“and I warn you that when she is my wife 
she will confess to you no more.” 

“That will be as she pleases,” I answered 
with a strange heart-sinking, and he smiled 
again as he responded, “Or as /please, which 
in this instance is about the same thing.” 

“It should be the same,” I remarked; “in 
the perfect love which the Church recognizes, 
no thought of difference between husband and 
wife can exist, and the husband is the head 
of the wife; the Bible teaches it.” 

For several moments he made no reply, 
then, flicking the ashes from where they had 
fallen on his sleeve, he murmured languidl}^ 
“You will take nothing? No? Then shall 
we join the ladies?” 

I acquiesced gladly, but I knew, as I fol- 
lowed him up the stairs, that it was to be war 
between us, and war to the knife. And poor 
Doroth}^ who loved him so, and was so fond 
of. so attached to me! Poor Dorothy! 


A DREAM OF APPROACHING SEPARATION 93 

I was not asked to sing that evening, for 
he took Dorothy to the conservator}’ while 
I greeted Mrs. Stonehenge, and he entertained 
her so well that when I rose to depart at ten 
o’clock, she came out blushing, and explained 
that she had not noticed how the time passed. 

“I suppose not,” said Mrs. Stonehenge, 
indulgently, as I smiled down upon her, and 
her lover smiled too, as she made no answer, 
save to blush again and more deeply. 

There was undoubted and unmistakable tri- 
umph in his eyes, but I was triumphant too 
when I left the house, for she followed me 
out into the hall to ask me to be in the sacristy 
at a certain hour the next day, as they were 
all going away (it was a new thing, I knew, 
for it had not been mentioned to me before; 
doubtless he had planned this since dinner), 
and she wanted to make a confession to me. 


And this is what I dreamed that night. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


A DREAM OF A MAIDEN ’s SORROW. 

Once more the calm, peaceful moonlight 
silvered the fields of Assyria, once more the 
maiden and the Israelite walked hand in hand 
through the dewy, silent pastures, once more 
the youth to whom she was betrothed watched 
them from the high hill behind the brook; 
but this time the maiden w'ept sore as she clung 
to her lover, and would not be comforted, al- 
beit he embraced her tenderly and held her 
close to his heart. For the Israelite had said : 
“My beloved, thou know^est that ere the 
moon shall be low in the heavens again, the 
harvesting will be past and over, and then must 
I go to mine own country, and bid thee fare- 
well.” 

“But shall I not surely go with thee?” she 
asked, her wide, sweet eyes gazing suddenly 
up at him. “Why shouldst thou then bid me 
farewell? Surely thou wouldst not leave me 
94 


A PREAM OF A MAIDEN ’s SORROW 95 

alone to tell my kindred of my broken vow, 
and the sin into which thou hast led me!” 

“ Nay, rather thou ledst me,” he answered 
with wrath in his tones, “for I was ever a 
good son of Israel until I saw thy fair face.” 

“And I, too, didst never err or stray from 
the path of righteousness until I loved thee,” 
she said brokenly; “surely, then, this love of 
mine and thine is not holy, as thou hast taught 
me, but evil, since it has tempted us both to 
do wickedly.” 

Now the Israelite was troubled, for he had 
thought that the maiden would yield to his 
departure readily, he not knowing the power 
and strength of a woman’s love, and he sor- 
rowed greatly to see her thus weeping; but 
when she stilled not her sobs, nor hushed her 
tears, only clung the closer to him and 
mourned the more in the abandonmont of her 
grief that he would thus desert her, and leave 
her lonely to bear the sorrow and shame 
which awaited her, he grew angry once more. 

“ Art thou a child to weep thus?” he cried, 
and he would fain have shaken her drooping 
head from his shoulder, but she held him 
the tighter, and answered, “Would God that 
I were indeed a child, for then would my father 


96 


. THE STORY OF A DREAM 


protect me and my mother comfort me, but 
now I am indeed desolate. When thou shalt 
have gone I shall die.” 

For she thought in her heart that he would 
repent and take her with him. But he re- 
pented not, and presently he said yet again, 

‘‘Thou art a foolish child to weep thus for 
me. Go back to thine own lover, and he will 
comfort thee. He is mad for love of thee, 
and thou shouldst recompense him for the 
pain he has endured at thy hands this sum- 
mertime.” 

But she would not be so entreated, and he 
was fain to persuade her with tender words 
and caresses. 

“See, then, m}^ beloved,” he began, his 
voice gentle, and his hands holding hers, 
“see then, my heart’s delight, how could I, 
indeed, marry thee ? Surely thou art of another 
race, and the men of Israel do not wed with 
strangers.” 

“And callest thou me a stranger?” she 
moaned, her tears falling like the large drops 
which presage a storm. “Am I no more than 
a stranger to thee? Surely thou didst tell me 
but a short while since that I was more to 
thee than father or mother or friends or kin- 
dred.” 


A DREAM OF A MA.IDEn’s SORROW 


“Thou art indeed more to me than all 
these,” he said again, seized with a fresh 
passion of love, “but yet cannot I marry 
thee. How could I take an Ishmaelitish 
maiden to my father’s house?” 

“Then go not to thy father’s house,” she 
murmured, softly, her head on his breast, 
her soft, cool arm pressed closely round his 
throat. “ Go not to thine own land again. Thy 
people will mourn thee as dead, and we can 
live here for ever, in happiness. My people 
will receive thee, and thou canst take my 
Gods for thine.” 

, “And thy betrothed?” he asked her, with 
a cold sneer curving his lips. “What shall he 
do when this shall come to pass?” 

His tone struck fear to her trembling 
heart, but his words were like honey to her 
soul, and she raised her head jo^^ously. 

“He will marry another, when we shall tell 
him the truth,” she whispered. “There is mine 
own cousin who is so like me. He will be 
happy with her, and she loves him already. 
But speak not of him, beloved, for the re- 
membrance of his pain stings my gladness in 
thy company, and when we are married he 
will cease to mourn.” 


98 


THE STORY OJi' A DR E AIM 


“But, tny mandrake,” was the Israelite’s 
answer, “we can never be married. Have I 
not told thee so? This summertime has been 
a sweet dream, and as a sweet dream must 
we forget it. It has been all a dream, beloved, 
all a dream, and we must return to the paths 
of duty once more, and in the winter which 
is coming forget each other. It has been all 
a dream.” 

His voice was sad, his face sorrowful, but 
the demeanor of the damsel was as bitter gall. 

“And what of my shame?” she moaned. 
“What of m}^ shame? Is that, too, a dream? 
Oh, would God, would God it were! I am 
undone, and thou — thou art a coward, and 
the son of a worm, to leave me to face the 
bitterness alone.” 

Now the Israelite was glad to see her thus 
angry, for he dreaded her weeping, and he 
knew that wrath drieth up the fount of tears, 
so he answered scornfully, “Go back to thine 
own lover, I say, and let him hide thy shame 
for thee. He will do it, being mad for love > 
of thee, and I will depart after the harvesting 
is over.” 

But at these words her wrath melted, and 
she flung herself upon him, crying out, “But, 


A DREAM OF A MAIDEN’s SORROW 


love, it cannot be! I love thee, and thou 
lovest me, I know thou lovest me; make me 
thine own in name as I am in soul and body, 
and take me with thee, or else stay here for- 
ever with me.” And again she wept bitterly 
and clung fast to him. 

Now the wrath of the Israelite was kindled 
against her, and he spake hotly. 

“ I cannot take thee,” he raged, and neither 
will I forswear mine own kindred and mine 
own God for the wicked love of thee.” 

Then why didst thou tempt me ?” she asked 
him pitifully. “Why didst thou not tell me 
that thou wouldst never marry me?” 

But he heeded her not, save to unloose her 
clasping arms, but continued: “My God has 
forbidden that I should marry an alien, and 
thy God must care for thee; I must wed a 
damsel of my father’s house. Behold even 
now she waits for me in the tent of her mother, 
and wonders at my long tarrying.” 

“And thou wilt go to her, and leave me to 
mourn!” said the maiden sadly. “Then is thy 
religion vain.” (And she was right, indeed, 
for men know now that “there is no religion 
higher than ‘truth. ”) 

But the Israelite answered angrily, “My 


I GO 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


religion is not vain ; surely I have kept the 
strict letter of the law, save when I sinned 
with thee, and thou art an alien, and thy peo- 
ple given to us to despoil. I love thee dearly, 
aye, wickedly, as thou knowest full well,- yet 
can 1 never marrj^ thee, for how can 1 take 
an Ishmaelitish maiden to my father’s house? 
And neither will I forswear my God for thee. 
I would forswear my very soul for thee, but 
I must yet hold to my religion.” 

“Then thou art base,” was the damsel’s 
weeping answer as she turned away, but a 
moment after she fell upon him again and 
besought him, “Oh, go not away from me or 
I shall die,” and her voice was gone from her 
in the tempest of her weeping. 

But the Israelite answered nothing, only 
he stood as a stern rock, and his face was like 
that of a carven statue. 

“It cannot be,” he said in his heart, “it is 
'my duty to bid her farewell. I cannot wed 
her, and I must depart.” 

But his heart was heavy within him, and 
his soul troubled, although he spake no word 
aloud and would not return the maiden’s 
embraces. 

So it came to pass that after a little space 


A DREAM OF A MAIDEn’s SORROW 


lOI 


she loosed her hold upon him, and hiding her 
face in her mantle, went slowly away. 

And the Israelite cast himself down upon 
the grass and wept sore, and the youth on 
the hill behind him was mad with anger, and 
drew his sword. ‘‘She is weeping,” he said, 
“and that stranger has caused her tears, while 
I, — I would shed my last drop of blood for 
her. If he comforts her not on the morrow, 
I will kill him.” 

Then he knelt slowly down, clenching his 
hands, and prayed God for vengeance upon 
the head of the Israelite. 

And while he prayed the moon was hidden 
behind a cloud, and the maiden went slowly 
up the hill, and she wept sorely. 

Yet on the morrow was she comforted, for 
she thought, “ He cannot mean it; he will 
surely take me with him,” and the Israelite 
was kindly in his manner toward her, and she 
was so happy that the youth to whom she was 
betrothed spared the Israelite, and the latter 
knew not his danger. 

And so the time passed until the moon 
was full, and the harvesting drew near. 

And this was all I dreamed that night, but 
on the morrow I went on with the longer 
dream called Life. 


CHAPTER IX. 


A DREAM OF THE BITTERNESS OF PARTING. 

She came to me the following day, my 
dear, sweet love, my love whom I could never 
claim, my love of centuries ago, my darling 
Dorothy, and told me of her coming journey. 
And ever}^ word she spoke was as a sword- 
thrust in my heart, for through her voice, the 
voice which had swayed the pulses of my 
being for so many thousand years, I heard the 
tones of her lover, the man who had claimed 
her, won her, taken her for his own, my rival 
and my bitter enemy, as our souls well knew. 

“We are going to the mountains,” she told 
me joyously, “auntie, and Arthur and I. 
And we shall have such a lovely time, I know. 
I have always wanted to travel so much, you 
know, don’t you?” 

(Yes, I knew. How many times she had 
told me of her longing to go away! How 
many times I had wept in spirit to think that 
I should never be able to take her!) 

102 


A DREAM OF THE BITTERNESS OF PARTING IO3 

“When are you going, my child ?” I asked 
in my most clerical manner, for weak as the 
armor was, it was still the only protection I 
had against the temptation to yield to my 
love, and she answered, with her pretty, gay 
smile: 

“Just think how soon ! You’ll never be able 
to guess, so ril tell you. We are going to 
leave Chicago the day after to-morrow. 
Auntie says that we can get all the clothing 
we need in New York, and Arthur is so anx- 
ious to go.” 

“How long are you going to stay?” I in- 
quired, ignoring her raptures, which hurt me 
sorely, in the light of my inability to share 
them. “When do you expect to return?” 

A quick stab cut off my breath, a sharp pain 
which ran through my heart and stopped its 
beating as she replied: “Auntie thinks we 
shall probably come back in September.” (Ah 
me! so long, so very long, before I should 
see her dear face, or hear her sweet voice 
again I I knew I should have rejoiced at being 
removed from temptation, but human nature 
is always human, no matter how long and 
heavy the priestly robes, and I could not' but 
sorrow.) “And Arthur” (the pretty hesita- 


104 the story of a dream 

tion each time she mentioned his name, hurt 
me to the very quick of my nature. What 
had he done to merit such love?) “Arthur 
thinks that we had better stay until a day or so 
before — before — our wedding,” she con- 
tinued, with h blush which made her more 
lovely than ever. “He says that auntie could 
come on ahead of us, and send out the invita- 
tions, and all that, and we could visit friends 
meanwhile. I don’t see why he wants to do 
so,” she finished, but I saw; I knew he 
wanted to prevent her from seeing anything 
more of me, the cowardly wretch to judge all 
men by his own miserable nature. 

A few seconds of reflection induced me to 
take a more reasonable and charitable view 
of his conduct, however, and my voice was 
quite natural, my manner perfectl}^ calm as 
I answered: “ It is very easy to understand 
his motive, my child. He very naturally 
wants to have you all to himself during the 
last few days of engagement. And is the 
• wedding day set?” 

“We have not yet decided upon it,” she 
answered, with another flood of color rushing 
over her face and snowy throat, “but it will 
not be later than October.” 


A DREAM OF THE BITTERNESS OF PARTING I05 

I turned away, sick at heart, but I knew that 
she was innocently gazing up at me (I was 
standing on the steps of the vestibule, where 
I had waited for her, and she seemed even 
smaller than usual that day, with the new droop 
in , her neck, and the new humbleness of 
carriage. Oh, Dorothy! beware of the lover 
who makes his betrothed feel so humbled, — 
not at the wondrous mystery of Love which 
has come to her, but at the grandeur of the 
man who has introduced it to her), and after 
a moment I looked down at her again. 

“I have not yet congratulated Mr. Bramp- 
ton, Dorothy,” I said slowly, and as cordially 
as I could manage to do, “nor wished you 
happiness. Let me do so now, my child. I 
shall never cease to pray for your welfare.” 

“Thank you,” she whispered, bending her 
head with a sweet, new shyness under my 
hot glance, “ I know you will. And you — 
you — will marry me — us — won’t you?” 

She looked pleadingly at me, as though half 
fearing I should refuse, and the knowledge, 
unthought of, unrealized before, that in all 
probability I should have to personally deliver 
her over to the care of another man, a man 
whom, in my innermost heart, I distrusted. 


lo6 The story of a dream 

smote me with a fresh pang. And yet, — 
could I bear to know that any one else had 
done so? Ah, if I had only known, if I had 
only known! But, fortunately, poor human 
hearts never know such things. Thank God 
that they do not! Quite enough break as it is. 

‘‘Certainly I shall marry you,” I told her, 
with an attempt at something like cheerfulness. 
“Who else should do so?” and I smiled with 
a ghastly effect of suppressed merriment. 

“Don’t laugh at me, please,” she said, de- 
ceived by the effort which cost me so much. 
“Don’t yoe/.” (I fancied a faint accent upon 
the pronoun. Did laugh at her? I won- 
dered bitterly.) “Don’t you laugh at me. 
You know I wouldn’t let any one else marry 
me,” and she laid a caressing hand upon my 
black sleeve, the sleeve which I was growing 
to hate as the symbol of my slavery. But for 
it, and what it implied, I might at least have 
made a struggle for her love, perhaps even 
succeeded in winning it before the other made 
his appearance. I despised, dreaded, hated 
such sacrilegious thoughts, did severe penance 
for them, but they would recur, spite of all 
my efforts, whenever she was near. That 
bit of woman’s flesh and dainty skin set all 
my heart and blood afire. 


A DREAM OE THE bitterness OF PARTING IO7 

She still looked up at me earnestly, with 
the pleading look only seen in the ej^es of a 
tender woman, — or a dog, — and I knew she 
felt that something was missing from my 
spoken congratulations. She wanted some 
warm commendation of her lover, some word 
of liking or respect for him, and I had none 
to give. So presently, with a deep sigh, for 
a feeling she could not express, and did not 
more than half understand, she said she had 
promised him to hurry back, and must proceed 
with her confession. 

“It will be the last I shall make for some 
time,” she said, a little w'istfully, “for I 
should never have the courage to talk to a 
priest whom I did not know, and then, 
Arthur” (always Arthur) “ says that we shall 
not slop long in anyone place. And I shall 
miss your help so much,” she went on, with 
a sad sigh over her own faults, “and I am so 
wicked. But you always comfort me,” she 
finished, happily. 

Poor little child, how much of the comfort 
was spiritual, how much merely sympathetic ? 
I know now, bnt I did not then, although I 
had a dim suspicion. 

So we went into the sacristy, while she 


Io8 THE STORY OF A DREAM 

meekly told me of her faults. And such small 
sins as they were! the chief of them being 
that she loved her fiance too much. “1 can- 
not help thinking of him all the time,” she 
whispered penitently, “even at my prayers, 
and although I know how wrong it is, I don’t 
seem able to help it.” 

For once, then, my higher wisdom van- 
quished my priestly lore. “It is not wrong, 
my child,” I said quickly, “it is perfectly 
right; you are only following unconsciously 
the law of God. Love is never wrong.” 

She was very happy at this,' and it gave a 
lovely light to the face she turned toward me, 
when, after a few moments of attempted prayer, 
I rejoined her in the vestibule, where she was 
waiting to bid me good-bye. I talked of 
her class in Sunday school, of her aunt, of 
her lover, anything to keep her near me a 
little longer, anything to put off the parting 
which my intuition, the much abused faculty 
which I scorned then, told me would be more 
than an ordinary one; but all too soon she 
grew restless, hesitated and finally said that 
she must hurry. 

“You see I promised Arthur to visit his 
mother this afternoon,” she said, “and you 


A DREAM OF THE BITTERNESS OF PARTING IO9 

know,” with a roguish smile, “that I have 
heard you say many times that an engaged 
girl is really married, spiritually speaking, 
and that a wife” (oh, the beauty of her blush, 
the winsome loveliness of iti) “should obey 
her husband.” 

“Quite right, Dorothy,” I answered, true 
to my duty at last, although my whole soul 
rebelled against it, “quite right. A true en- 
gagement, the Church teaches, is as sacred 
as marriage itself. A wife should obey her 
husband in all things, and you cannot make 
a better beginning for married happiness than 
to recognize this truth.” 

Up here, in Devachan, I know the falsity 
of the law which makes a woman subservient 
to a man save where the perfect love which 
precludes obedience on either side exists, 
but alas! I knew so little, and fancied I knew 
so much, in those sad earthly days. 

She laughed, the dear little girl, laughed 
out in the happy, hearty, innocent fashion 
peculiar to joyous girlhood, and her eyes 
danced with mischief as she remarked, merrily, 
“I shall tell Arthur that the reason of my tar- 
diness was because you kept me to listen to a 
lecture on the sacred nature of engagement 
vows, and the duties of wifely obedience.” 


no 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


I smiled with a brave effort to let her enjoy 
her laughter, undimmed by cold looks, and 
again those laughing eyes looked gayly up 
into mine, filled with despair and the bitterness 
of acknowledged defeat. 

The laughter was replaced by something 
very like tears a moment later, for when she 
said, “Good-bye, dear Father, good-bye, and 
pray for me, — and Arthur,” she was greatly 
moved. Perhaps she, too, divined that our 
pleasant relations were over and that we 
should meet as friends no more. 

“Good-bye, my child,” I answered, steady- 
ing my voire with an effort, “good-bye, and 
God bless you.” 

She held out her hands; I took them both 
in one of mine and laid the other on her head 
in blessing, and when I had finished speaking 
she raised her face and looked the farewell 
of her soul. I was tempted sadly, sorely, to 
bend and kiss her white brow just where the 
delicate love-locks shadowed, touched, car- 
essed it, and she would have thought nothing 
of such an action, the pure soul ! but her lover, 
— and she told him everything. And then, 
my own honor. Sternly I restrained myself, 
and merely released her hands, and she, — 
she wept. 


A DREAM OF THE BITTERNESS OF PARTING III 


“I am SO sorry to say good-bye to you,” 
she told me frankly and innocently, “for you 
have been so good to me, and I love you for 
it.” 

“No, you do not love me, Dorothy,” I 
said, in what I fear was a strange tone, “but 
you have an affection for me, as I have a 
pastoral feeling” (God forgive me the lie!) 
“for you. And I hope you will always 
remember my admonitions and teachings.” 

“I will, I will,” she sobbed, “and I will 
always try to follow your example.” 

Oh, mockery of admiration I Bitter punish- 
ment of sin! I had to hear her praise and 
could not say how undeserved it was! 

And then I gave her a little gift I had pro- 
cured for her that morning, a bookmark of 
purple ribbon, with a silver crucifix on one 
end and a Greek letter at the other. 

“Oh, is it for me?” she said, delightedly. 
“ How very kind of you ! And I have nothing 
for you,” sorrowfully, “ I was going to em- 
broider you a sermon case, and send it to 
you, but Arthur thought it would be silly to 
do so. Would you have liked it?” 

“Very much,” I said as soon as I could 
quell the tempest of anger which rose within 


1 12 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


me at the thought of his interference with 
her kindly thought for me, “very much, but 
do not make it now, my child; enjoy your 
holiday with your lover.” (I turned away; 
I could not bear another blush, I was so 
weak.) “All your duty is to him now.” 

“I know it,” she responded, her regret 
gone, “and you always understand what I 
mean, anyway. This is so pretty,” and she 
fondled the trinket with the loving touches 
women bestow so readily upon anything 
dainty. 

“Keep it,” I told her, “in remembrance 
of — ” I wanted, had intended to say “your 
church duties,” but I could not. Something 
choked me, and I said instead, “as a remem- 
brance of me.” 

“Indeed I will,” she replied, sweetly, “I 
shall put it in my Bible, and think of you 
whenever I see it. Good-bye, good-bye.” 

And with a last hand-pressure she was 
gone, — gone from my life, but not, alas! from 
my heart. 

I stood on the step of the church and 
watched her out of sight, regardless of the 
inquisitive glances of the passers-by, with 
something of the feeling with which one 


A DREAM OF THE BITTERNESS DEPARTING II3 

watches the last carriage of the funeral train 
which is carrying a dearl3Moved friend to 
the grave, and, if I had known it, she was 
indeed dead to me, dead and buried deeper 
than if miles of earth had been piled above 
her. 

When I returned to the church I found 
on the floor her little glove which she had 
dropped, and the kiss I imprinted upon it 
was surely forgiven of God, for it was a caress 
such as is pressed upon the face of a corpse. I 
put the glove carefully in my pocket, but upon 
second and better thoughts placed it in a draw 
where I knew the janitor kept lost articles 
until called for ; I took it out 'twice, murmur- 
ing loving phrases over it, and when I finally 
put the sweet temptation from me, tears drop- 
ped from my e3^es,and blood from m3’ heart. 

“Oh, my darling, my sweetheart, my little 
love!” I whispered, as I knelt down on the 
lowest chancel step, and then — then some one 
came to ask for me, and I — was a priest 
again. 

Early the next morning Mrs. Stonehenge 
came to the church to make her adieus, and 
she brought me a note from Dorothy, 

^^Tbe dear child could not come herself,” 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


II4 

she said, apologetically, “.or at least Mr. 
Brampton did not wish her to do so. He 
wanted her to save her strength (she is not 
very strong, you know, and he is so careful 
for her), so she wrote a note and sent it by 
me. But I know she felt badly, for she looked 
so sad.” 

“Miss Dorothy bade me good-b37e yester- 
day,” I answered calmly, “ and the note is 
doubtless something concerning her class- 
work.” 

But I knew that this was not so; when first 
I had received the note, my fingers had in- 
voluntarily" gripped it tightly, and I had felt 
the shape of a cross through the thick, satiny 
paper. So he had compelled her to return 
my gift. My heart was full of bitterness as 
I talked with my visitor, and once or twice I 
answered her so much at random that she 
looked very much surprised, and asked if I 
was ill. 

“I am not quite well,” I responded. “1 
_ was up with a parishioner most of last night, 
and I am a little weary.” 

She left me soon after, with many regrets 
and much sympathy, and I was free to read 
the note my darling had sent me. 


A DREAM OF THE BITTERNESS OF PARTING I I 5 

‘‘Dear Father,” it commenced, “Arthur 
does not like me to receive presents from any 
man but himself, he says, and I know you will 
think I ought to follow his wishes. So I 
send you back the lovely gift 3^011 gave me 
3"esterda3% and shall remember you always as 
“Yours veiy affectionately, 

“Dorothy Perseus.” 

For some time I hesitated as to what I 
should do with my rejected present, but at 
last I tied the ribbons together around my 
neck, and slipped the cross underneath my 
cassock. It was a sacred emblem, and even 
if I should die suddenly would not create 
surprise if discovered. 1 could not throw it 
away when she had once been pleased with 
it, and this disposal seemed at once the sim- 
plest and best. 

The note I read several times, seeing more 
of the unwritten sorrow and regret in it at 
each perusal; then I burned it, and watched 
the small flames eat it up with a breaking 
heart. 

A few days later I read in a newspaper, sent 
me anonymousl}^ that “Mrs. Albert Stone- 
henge, together with her niece Miss Dorothy 
Perseus, and the young lady’s fiance, Mr. 


I 1 6 THE STORY OP' A DREAM 

Arthur Brampton, had registered at the 

Hotel, Cape May, and the young lady, despite 
her acknowledged engagement, was receiving 
much attention.” 

So he had lost no time in having her ad- 
vertised as his own. Well, perhaps it was 
'best. At all events, I had nothing to do 
with her now. The time had come for fight- 
ing the demon within me, and this I did most 
manfully. 

But ever the foreshadow of defeat hung over 
me, and my physical strength grew so small 
that m}^ parishioners began to feel anxious 
for my sake, and to advise change. But I 
would not go away. I had done them wrong 
enough by my carnal, worldly love. I des- 
pised the clerg3^man who fled to the cool coun- 
try and left his flock sheperdless while he 
recuperated, so I resolved to spend the entire 
summer in the city. But I had to endure 
much admiration on this account, and when 
people said, His soul is too large for his 
body,” I sickened , and would fain have died. 
What is so hard to endure as unearned ap- 
probation ? Surel}^ some of the punishment 
of the orthodox hell consists in the kindl}^ 
judgment of others as compared with our own 


A DREAM OF THE BITTERNESS OF PARTING 1 17 

stern appraisement of ourselves. For who 
can judge us so harshly as our own souls? 

And all that long, bitter, struggling sum- 
mer, as my physical strength waned, my 
soul grew, and ever I dreamed, until I hardly 
knew which was my real life, that of night or 
day. Sometimes I would not go to bed for 
nights at a time, hoping to conquer the dreams 
which pursued me, but in vain. Dreams of 
that far-off other life recurred, yet still I knew 
not the meaning of them, and added to these 
were wondrous dreams in the which I fol- 
lowed Dorothy and watched her life as spec- 
tators at a theater watch the movements and 
listen to the speeches of the actors. 

But of these dreams I could remember 
nothing when I awoke, while the dreams of 
that other time were always distinct and clear. 


And this was one of them. 


CHAPTER X 

A DREAM OF A GIRL’s DESPAIR. 

The harvesting was over in the land of 
Samaria, the grain all safely put away with 
prayers and songs of thanksgiving and glad- 
ness, the rejoicing-feast eaten. 

In the harvest fields, still rough with stub- 
ble, the gleaners were gathering their sheaves 
together; in the pastures nearest the house of 
the maiden whom the Israelite had beguiled, 
the people were gail}^ dancing to the music 
of harps and timbrels; and far down near che 
brook the Israelite and the maiden walked 
once more together. 

For a short space they had joined in the 
dance apart, then the maiden had gently 
seized the hand of the Israelite, as she passed 
him by in the circling merriment, and drawn 
him away from the others until they had passed 
from sight. 

His arm was not thrown around her waist 
118 


A DREAM OF A GIRL^S DESPAIR II9 

now, nor did her head rest on his shoulder, 
but she bent toward him supplicatingly, and 
he held sternly back. Ever and anon she laid 
a soft, deprecating hand upon his arm, but 
with a quick, impatient movement he shook 
it off, and at last, when her patience was well 
nigh spent, she stood still and faced him. 

‘■‘And art thou not going to speak to me?” 
she cried, with tears in the voice he still loved 
so well, although, after the manner of men, 
he cared less now that she had given him the 
love he sought in such generous measure. 
“Mast thou nothing to say to me, now that I 
have stolen away from the dancers to be with 
thee?” 

Her glance was hot with wrath, but her lips 
were quivering as she thus spake to him, but 
his anger melted not, and he gazed at her 
sullenly. 

“Nothing but to remind thee that I am 
about to depart, and go to mine own coun- 
try,” he answered, avoiding her beseeching 
look, “and I did not ask thee to steal away 
with me. Thou ledst me rather.” 

Now the heart of the Israelite was torn with 
sorrow at the thought of to-moriow’s parting, 
therefore spake he after this fashion, but . the 


120 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


maiden knew not that he also suffered, and 
her wrath was kindled until it blazed hotly 
against him. 

“Thou art a dog,” she said, “to speak thus 
to me who have given up so much for thy love. 
And think not to escape scatheless; thy God 
may be a God of cruelty to deliver thine en- 
emies into thy hand and make it no sin to 
hurt a maiden, but my God is a God of jus- 
tice, and surely he will punish thee for thy 
wrongdoing to me.” 

“Didst thou bring me here to thus entreat 
me evilly?” was the question of the Israelite, 
as he turned from her ardent looks. “Didst 
thou think to make my heart sink within me? 
The men of Israel do not quail before a maid.” 

“Nay, thou art right,” she answered bit- 
terly, although the tears were once more drop- 
ping from her eyes, “ they wrong them rather, 
and afterward escape safely to their own coun- 
try and leave the maiden to bear the punish- 
ment of their sins alone.” 

Her voice died away in weeping, and the 
Israelite drew near to her once more. 

“Na}^ but maiden,” he whispered in tones 
like unto the summer wind which swept the 
vines in the vineyard, “nay, but beloved, let 


A DREAM OF A GIRl’s DESPAIR 


I2I 


US not thus speak evilly to one another, when' 
on the morrow I must depart. What didst 
thou bring me here for?” 

“ I bring thee here !”was the damsel’s scorn- 
ful reply. “How long is it, verily, since thou 
didst entice me to come here with thee? I 
brought thee here because I thought thee a 
man, and not a covvardl}^ ^ 

dream that thou couldst mean that which thou 
didst tell me here but yesternight; I thought 
that surely thou hadst repented, and didst 
think to take me away with thee. Therefore 
I desired to plan the manner of our going.” 

■ Her tones, were tremulous again, and her 
great eyes alight with love, yet did he not 
relent, but answered sternly: “Did I not tell 
thee that it can never be? Andthinkest thou 
me a child that I should eat my own words? 
Verily on the morrow we part, and even now 
I will bid thee farewell,” and he made as 
though he would bow before her in token of 
parting. 

But she would not let him leave her thus, 
and she constrained him to remain. 

“Stay yet a little, my beloved,” she mur- 
mured, with her arms wound round his neck, 
and her perfumed head on his breast, “stay 


122 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


yet a little, for when thou shalt leave me I 
shall die. Yea, I must, for if I kill not myself 
or die of grief, then shall I be stoned so soon 
as my sin is discovered and there is none to 
shelter me. Stay yet a little, and let me live !” 

Now the Israelite was yet more troubled at 
these tidings, although he believed them not, 
and he did but speak the more sternly. 

“Nay, verily,” he thundered, “this is not 
so. Thou wilt not be stoned; it is only in 
Israel that such things as this come to pass.” 
Yet even as he spake he knew that in Ish- 
mael also were such things spoken of. 

Therefore he continued, tearing her arms 
apart, though she still clung to him (for he 
said in his heart, “If I go not away at once, 
verily she will bewitch me with her tears, 
and I shall stay in her land forever”): “It 
shall not be, I tell thee. There is thine old 
lover; tell him thy sorrow and he will shield 
thee, even though he knoweth of the wrong 
that we have done.” 

“And thinkest thou that I could do thus 
basely?” said the maiden, clasping him still 
the closer. “How could I live with him when 
my heart was following thee?” 

Then was the Israelite beside himself, for 


A DREAM OF A GIRl’s DESPAIR I 23 

he felt his strength leaving him and feared 
that she would force him to yield, and his 
voice was as bitter herbs as he said to the 
maiden, “And hast thou no pride that thou thus 
constrainest me? Where is the pride of thy 
maidenhood ?” 

And the damsel answered, with a storm of 
weeping, “Thou knowest where my pride is. 
Thou shoiildst know, for thou hast killed both 
my maidenhood and my pride, and verily I 
have nothing left but love of thee.” 

And again she wept upon his bosom. Then 
would he fain have cast her from him in wrath , 
only she held him with the firmness of des- 
pair. 

“Leave go thy hold of me,” he cried, hot 
with anger. “Verily I would not marry thee 
now if thou wert indeed of mine own kindred. 
For thou hast killed m}^ care for thee with 
thy constant tears and weeping, and I love thee 
no more.” 

Then did the arms of the maiden fall loose 
from his neck, and her body sank to the 
ground. She knew not that he spake without 
truth and merely to be rid of her, and her 
heart was broken. 

And seeing her thus white and still, the 


124 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


Israelite repented him of the words that he 
had spoken to her, and. he knelt by her side 
and would have wakened her with kisses and 
tender words. But the youth to whom she 
was betrothed had watched them long, and 
seeing her fall had rushed down the hill like 
a spirit of the wind until he stood by her 
side. 

“Touch her not!” he shouted as the Israel- 
ite, unseeing of all but her, bent over her 
quiet form. “Touch her not or I will kill thee. 
Thou art too base and unclean to touch so 
pure a thing.” 

And the wrath of the Israelite was kindled 
against the youth and he spake hotl}’ to him: 

“Yea, veril}" is she pure,” he taunted, in 
tones of bitter malice, “only, — in Israel we 
stone such purity.” 

Then the youth confronted him with the 
mien of a warrior, and the jealous anger of a 
lover: 

“Were it not for her I would strike thee 
dead,” he said, low and sternly, “for I have 
gone armed, lo! these many weeks, fearing 
thou wouldst harm her thus, as witness this 
sword; but she loves thee, and I could not 
harm that which she held dear. Think not that 


A DREAM OF A GIER S DESPAIR 


125 


I have not known mine own wrong or her 
shame, but I love her, and I will see her well 
entreated of thee. For thou alone art to 
blame, and shall she sulTer alone? And if, on 
the morrow, thou dost not espouse her, and 
take her away with thee, then will I kill thee, 
and afterward she shall die by my sword. It 
will be far kindar than the stones of the 
multitude.” 

, And picking up the form of t' e maiden, he 
kissed her face reverently, and bore her up 
the hill to the house of her father. And his 
face was white with anger, and sad with the 
pain of love. 

•‘The maiden has swooned in the dancing,” 
he told her mother, who came hurrying to 
meet him and took his burden from him, “and 
I bore her to thee.” 

“ It is well,” was the answer of the maiden’s 
mother, but her heart was heavy within her, 
and her spirit mistrusted evil. 

“Go thou back to the dance,” she told the 
youth, “and I will care for thy betrothed.” 
Yet was her gaze keen as she looked upon 
him. 

But the youth had turned aw'ay, and when 

he answered it was in this wise; 


126 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


‘‘Nay, I will not go back to the dancers, 
but to my sheep, which have need of my 
care.” 

And he departed, and when he had reached 
the hill he wept sore for the maiden’s grief 
and his own sorrow. 

And down in the pasture the Israelite wept 
too, yet repented he not of his mind to depart 
on the morrow alone. 

For he moaned and said, “How could I 
take an Ishmaelitish maiden to my father’s 
house ?” 

And the stars looked down upon him as he 
mourned bitterly, but there was none to com- 
fort him, for who can comfort an unrepented 
sin? And not even God himself can undo or 
obviate the consequences of a wrong action, 
or stay its results. 

And it came to pass that one night, as I 
slept the light, restless sleep of utter exhaus- 
tion in m}’ hard, straight-backed, cushionless 
study chair, after a night spent in useless, 
wakeful sorrow, and a day of hard laboring 
e with an impenitent dying man, I dreamed 
still another dream and this was the dream 
which troubled me. 


CHAPTER XI. 


A DREAM OF A MODERN WOOING. 

The ball-room was crowded with the het- 
erogeneous throng which is alwa3^s in evidence 
at American watering-places, characteristic 
of them, and not a single type of all those so 
familiar to summer travelers was missing. 
There was the purse-proud parvenu by the 
dozen; the fading woman, stout, blonde, and 
loaded with diamonds in scores; enough old 
maids who would still have called themselves 
young to have formed the nucleus of a colony 
if taken together with the immaculate, blase, 
faultlessly-attired, slightly bald bachelors of no 
uncertain age who fluttered around the 
3'ounger girls ; gay society dames in any given 
quantitj^; plenty of the wall-flowers, young and 
old, who invariably sit around the sides of a 
dancing room, looking unutterably" sad and 
wistful, and flaunting their misery to the world 
127 


128 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


and the scornful eyes of the belles and their 
attendant beaux; grave, clerical-looking men 
who evidently regarded the dance as an in- 
decent exhibition to be made use of as an ex- 
ample in next winter’s revival, but who yet 
devoured the spectacle with eager, longing, 
pleasure-hungry eyes; stately ladies of a gen- 
eraiton ago, kept perennially young by the ga}?" 
spirit which animated them; stout, portly, 
elderly fathers of families, out of their el- 
ement and ill at ease ; graceful, slender young 
men who loved athletics and would have 
loved dancing but for the restraint and heat of 
evening attire; happy young triumphers over 
society who had nearly all the men collected 
round their chairs, they being too wise in 
their day and generation to grow red and 
heated with indulging in the pastime which 
could be enjoyed to the full in winter; shy, 
young, half-grown girls who gazed enviously 
upon these wonderful beings, and wandered 
about, in and out of the rooms and on the 
verandas, in bands, their hands clasped and 
their thin, frail arms swinging; and a few of 
the pretty, innocent-looking, fresh beauties 
who are the pride of all true Arneric^^ns, found 
wherever they may be, 


A DREAM OF A MODERN WOOING 1 29 

Among these latter was Dorothy, and that 
she was enjoying herself no one who saw her 
could doubt. She had danced every number 
with perfect grace and a zest which made 
even the wall-flowers watch her with kindly 
interest and forget for a moment their own 
hard lot (and hard indeed is the lot of a wall- 
flower, especially if she be young and there is 
no explainable reason for her neglected con- 
dition) in her evident gladness, while the 
belles looked at her as though suspicious of 
her success, and she was still fresh and pale. 
Oh, happy girl who keeps pale in a ball- 
room! Dorothy was one of the few girls 
whom nature favors with a complexion which 
is delicately colored at all times, but which 
attains the tint and shade of a lily in undue 
warmth or weariness or exertion, and amid 
the heated, flushed faces around her she 
looked like a white, snowy flower. 

Her dress, which was of a white, thin 
material, made just low enough to show the 
rounded, dainty throat and the tips of the 
dimpled shoulders, and with huge, diaphanous 
puffs through which the round, slender, dim- 
pled aims gleamed whitely, forming the 
sleeves; the waist, lovely in its girlish, un- 


130 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


formed, uncorseted slenderness and round- 
ness, defined by a broad sash, heightened this 
effect. As she swayed and whirled in the 
enthusiasm of dancing she might have been a 
lily or narcissus plucked from some old-fash- 
ioned garden, and transformed into a living, 
breathing creature, half woman, half child, 
with the gracious beauty of the one, the inno- 
cent shyness of the other. 

Dorothy had, of course, learned to dance at 
school, and to dance as only schoolgirls, re- 
stricted to few' pleasures, can dance, and as she 
had not yet been ‘‘brought out,’Uhis was her 
first sweet glimpse of the world’s gayety. 
Her lover had insisted that «he should be 
treated henceforth as a woman grown and 
freed from all restraint, and had himself sec- 
onded her desire, slightly frowned upon by 
Mrs. Stonehenge, to attend this, the first 
“hop” which she had ever seen. 

For the first half-hour Arthur Brampton 
had heartily enjoyed watching Dorothy and 
noticing the admiration she excited, but after 
a little, when she joyously told him that her 
card was filled down to the very last extra, 
and he realized that his name was only written 
on it once, his pleasure had faded in a great 


A DREAM OF A MODERN WOOING I3I 

degree. He was no more selfish, perhaps, 
than other men, but it is a little hard to see 
one’s sweetheart dancing with a dozen other 
partners, while one’s own self is left out in 
the cold. 

So, when at last his turn drew near, he sug- 
gested that they adjourn to the veranda, think- 
ing to keep her there until several dances 
had passed, but she would not consent. Doro- 
thy, woman-like, had had her first taste of the 
power which young loveliness brings, and she 
was enjoying it to the full. The cup was 
very sweet, and she wanted to drink a little 
longer. 

“No,” she said, with a pretty, mutinous pout, 
an expression of coquetry which he had never 
seen her wear before, “I don’t want to go 
out on the veranda yet. It’s so lovely to 
dance, and just see all the numbers I have 
on rny card.” 

“But, dear,” he remonstrated, a trifle hurt 
b}^ this, her first mutiny against his will, “ But, 
dear, ^^ou are so pale, I know you must be 
tired, and see, there is auntie beckoning to 
us.” 

“You go to her then,” she laughed, slipping 
into the arms of her next partner, who came 


132 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


just then to claim her, and she was gone 
before he could speak again. 

‘‘She will be spoiled if this thing goes on,” 
he told Mrs. Stonehenge petulantly; “those 
fools will turn her pretty little head com- 
pletely.” 

“Oh, no, I think not,” was her cheerful 
answer. “Dorothy is good and sweet at heart, 
and she is so happ}^ in her engagement, dear 
little soul. I have never loved her so much 
as I do now.” 

“That’s very easy to explain,” laughed 
the young man, confidently and affectionately, 
“since she is engaged to me,” and he smiled 
in the whole-hearted, happy way peculiar to 
a healthy young man. 

“Well, perhaps there is something in that,” 
was Mrs. Stonehenge’s reply, “but, joking 
apart, Arthur, 3^ou ought not to grudge the 
dear child her pleasure. I always think that 
a man who marries a very young girl ought 
to be especially careful of her in all ways, 
since she is so unsophisticated. Now Doro- 
thy has known practically no one but ^^ourself, * 
and this is her first gayety. Don’t grudge 
it to her, because you have worn out the sen- 
sation long ago.” 


A DREAM OF A MODERN WOOING 1 33 

“Oh, I don’t, auntie,” he responded ear- 
nestly, “I want her to be happy, but just see 
those idiots now,” pointing to where Dorothy 
stood, surrounded by a group of laughing 
men who were endeavoring to persuade her 
to divide some of her dances, “just look at 
them. What girl’s vanity could stand that 
sort of thing and not grow abnormally?” 

“Dorothy can stand it,” said his listener, 
calmly, “she has found her soul, you know; 
and, my dear, before judging those gentle- 
men too strictly for their very evident admi- 
ration of your sweetheart, think of how you 
would have acted in their place. How would 
you like never to have met her until now?” 

“That’s so, auntie,” was the satisfied re- 
joinder, and Mrs. Stonehenge, happy in hav- 
ing satisfied his vanity, smiled to herself, and 
beckoned Arthur’s stepfather to her. 

He came, looking decidedly bored, for 
to a sober, middle-aged, scientific man a hotel 
ball-room is undoubtedly dreary, and she 
whisperingly instructed him to fetch Dorothy 
to her. His effort was unsuccessful for, the 
girl had already flown off again when he 
reached the spot where she had been standing, 
but he brought his wife, and in talking to 


134 STORY OF A DREAM 

her Mrs. Stonehenge forgot Dorothy for a 
time. 

Not so Arthur. He fretted and fidgeted 
until his mother inquired what ailed him, 
then rising abruptly, he went and leaned 
against the door, watching the pretty, slight 
form and the dainty feet which belonged to 
him, trip and flutter around, to the guidance 
and in the arms of others. He had wicked 
thoughts of round dancing just then, but they 
vanished when he saw a butterfly youth escort 
his lady-love to his mother’s care, and leave 
her with a bow. He started toward the 
group quickly, and arrived just in time to hear 
his mother tell the girl that he was jealous, and 
to receive her surprised, innocent glance. 

“Why?” she asked, seriously, looking up 
at him with her large, lovel}^ eyes. “What 
have I done to make him angry with me ?’ and 
her childish, full lower lip quivered like that 
of a hurt baby. 

“There, there, nothing at all,” was Mrs. 
Prescott’s laughing answer. “Run away with 
him, child, and act like a woman.” 

The girl looked from her to Mrs. Stone- 
henge inquiringly, but meeting a reassuring 
glance from the latter, she turned to Arthur 
and walked away with him. 


A DREAM OF A MODERN WOOING 1 35 

“How I do love that child!” said Mrs. 
Prescott as she went, “and yet she makes me 
feel so curiously old. My emotional nature 
is as young as hers, but my heart and face 
have grown old alike. Have they not, my 
dear?” lifting her head to her husband, 
standing, sentinel-like, behind her chair. 

“Neither, I think, my dear,” he returned 
gallantly, “but a girl so fresh as Dorothy 
makes us all seem old. Your boy could not 
have a sweeter wife.” 

“I think so, too,” she said softly, following 
the girl with tender eyes, but she sighed 
nevertheless; a sigh for her own lost youth. 
Frivolity ofttimes hides a sad soul, and youth, 
with all its foolishness, is very dear to a 
woman, especially when it begins to slip 
away and leave a strange desolation behind. 

“ She is a dear child, ”she said to Mrs. Stone- 
henge, “and you are happy in this match, I 
know.” 

“Indeed, yes,” was the answer, “it will 
be the very thing for both of them, and Doro- 
thy is sweeter for it already.” 

Yes, Dorothy was the sweeter, for she was 
happier, and happiness is sweetness, good- 
ness, all the world over. “Be good and you 


136 THE STORY OF A DREAM 

will be happy,” says the old proverb, but it 
were truer if it read, “Be happy and you will 
be good,” for do not our best impulses come 
when we are in the floodtide of a great joy? 

As for Dorothy, she felt, as she crossed 
the ball-room leaning on her lover’s arm, that 
life held no sweeter thing than this. 

“Let us dance our waltz,” she said with a 
pretty air of yielding to his unspoken wish, 
“and then go out on the balcony.” 

The music commenced as she spoke, a 
glorious waltz, with a swinging, slow rhythm, 
a sweet, dreamy melody, and the undertone 
of sadness which belongs to a perfect waltz 
measure, and he extended his arms. 

Like a bird she fluttered to them, laid her 
small white hand on his arm and floated off, 
their steps in perfect unison. 

“If it is true that harmony of soul produces 
harmony of step, we must be perfectly at- 
tuned,” said Arthur, smiling down upon her 
upturned face, as they swam lightly on, and 
she dreamil}^ answered, “Yes.” She was too 
wrapped up in the enthusiasm of the moment, 
too completely thrilled with the bliss of 
rhythmical movement, to care for words, and 
indeed it was no wonder, so well did she 


A DREAM OF A MODERN WOOING I37 

dance. People looked at them with admira- 
tion as they swayed and circled, and they 
were intoxicated with the spell of each other. 
Waltzing is indeed dangerous, my righteous 
friends, if the participants are not love-proof, 
but who can measure its joys to pure natures? 

The music ceased abruptly, and they went 
out onto the broad, cool, moonlit veranda, 
her hand still on his arm, his head bent low 
to hers. 

“Dear,” he began, when they had paced 
up and down the long porch several times, 
and turned at last into a secluded corner 
where no others were likely to intrude upon 
their happiness and quiet, “Dear, how much 
do you love me ?” 

She looked up at him dreamily from her 
low seat, and a long shaft of moonlight fell 
across her forehead like a silver beam of glory 
as she raised her graceful, girlish head, with 
the upturned chin which was so characteristic 
of her, to his face, bent down so lovingly. 

“How much do I love you?” she repeated, 
after a moment’s silence. “Dear, I love you 
more than I can express.” 

“Enough to give up something you liked 
to please me?” he queried again, and the 


138 THE STORY OF A DREAM 

glow of a perfect love, the love which weighs 
all the world as nothing in the balance with 
its own self, glorified her as she answered, 
“There is nothing — I think — that I would 
not ^deld for you.” 

“You only thinkT'' he said, a little jeal- 
ously. “Who is it you are not sure about?” 

“It isn’t any ‘who,’” she answered, smil- 
ing nervously, “it’s — it’s — I don’t want to 
say what. Auntie would know what I meant,” 
and she looked at him appealingly, and 
blushed exquisitely. 

The blush charmed away his budding 
jealousy, and filled his heart with a burning 
fire of passion, so that his voice trembled and 
his own swiftly rising color flamed back in 
answer to hers, but all the same he was not 
quite easy in mind as he gently told her, “I 
will not ask you to tell me, dear, I will not 
seek to know until you are ready to tell me. 
If the confidence between us is not so perfect 
as I deemed it, I will wait until it is.” 

“It isn’t a secret,” she hastily responded, 
slipping her warm, soft hand into his, “it’s 
something everybody who knows me knows 
of, and Tm sure you’ll know if you think.” 

“.Very well, dear,” he said, so tenderly that 


A DREAM OE A MODERN WOOING 


she blushed again in the moonlight, *‘Very 
well, dear, I must try to think.” 

But at heart he knew; he knew that it was 
of her religion that the child spoke, and the 
glimpse she had given him of how much it 
meant to her made him resolve to begin the 
work of undoing her faith as speedily as 
possible. Mrs. Stonehenge had begged him 
not to do this, but for once he had been deaf 
to her entreaties. 

“It’s no use, auntie,” he had told her that 
very morning, “you might as well ask me 
to see a slave in chains and not try to set him 
free. Dorothy is a slave to her religion, and 
I can’t and won’t see her sweet life spoiled 
and bound by such trammels if I can help it. 
Why, that was one of the reasons why I 
wanted her to come aw^iy from Chicago so 
quickly ; that priest had altogether too much 
influence over her.” 

“Why,” exclaimed Mrs. Stonehenge, tak- 
ing up the cudgels in defense of her friend, 
“Father Bertram is a good man, Arthur, as I 
well know, and his influence would only be 
for good, I am positive.” 

“That may or may not be true, auntie,” the 
determined young man had answered ; “from 


1^0 THE STORY OF A DREAM 

the opposite points of the compass from which 
you and I look at such matters they wear a 
very different aspect, and at all events I mean 
no man to influence my wife but myself. 
And if I am free I want Dorothy to share 
my freedom.” 

“But, my boy,” the other remonstrated, 
“we will let the question of ‘freedom’ pass 
for the present, together with all questions 
of right and wrong in the matter, and come 
to the consideration of happiness. Do you 
think that your dear little sweetheart could 
be happy with the cold abstractions which 
satisfy you? Women are not like men, dear, 
and religion is necessary to them.” 

“Then I will love her so tenderly that love 
shall be her religion,” he answered triumph- 
antly, strong in the conviction that his love 
would be sufficient for the woman whom he 
should honor with it, “and I will have no sep- 
aration between us, nothing, not even a shad- 
ow to mar our perfect unison, and if she 
continued to believe in religion and I did not 
we should be separated continuall3\ It shall 
never be, auntie, if I can prevent it,” and 
with a loving kiss, and a confident smile, he 
closed the conversation b^" strolling away. 


A DREAM OF A MODERN WOOING I4I 

Mrs. Stonehenge was troubled, but she did 
not believe that Dorothy would yield, and 
she dismissed the matter from her mind with 
the determination to warn the girl beforehand. 

Arthur read this intention in her look, and 
resolved to begin the battle himself, but he 
was not troubled in the slightest degree; he 
was so sure of victory. 

All this recurred to his mind as he sat by 
the girl’s side with her sweet presence so 
near that her breath fluttered against his cheek 
now and then, and the perfume of her dainty 
hair, piled high on the top of the small, girl- 
ish, queenly head, came to him with ever}^ 
turn of her throat, and with a sudden resolve 
he bent to her ear. 

‘‘Little girl,” he said softly, taking both 
her hands in his (oh, power of the human 
Will transmitted through the human hand, 
how marvelous art thou! Hypnotism thou 
art surely, yet more powerful still; nay, thou 
art soul magic, white or black according to 
the currents which control thee), “Little girl, 
you say you would give up everything for me, 
you think; oh, darling, don’t you know?^'‘ 

Faintly hurt by the echo of her own tones 
and modulations in his repeated words, “I 


142 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


think,” she turned in her low seat to face him, 
and lifting her passionate eyes, dim with the 
tears which, had she but known it, were shed 
for the defeat, the subjugation of her soul to 
his, she whispered, “l3ear, I do know; I 
would give up all the world and more if I had 
it, for you.” 

“Even your religion?” he said, holding 
down with a firm grasp the tide of swelling 
triumph which rose up within him, and she 
answered, with a world of love and passionate 
renunciation in her tremulous voice: 

“Yes, even my very soul!” 

“Thank you, my darling,” he murmured, 
quivering with the sense of mastery which 
lies at the bottom of every man’s heart, be 
he savage or cultured gentleman, and only 
waits for opportunity in order to spring forth 
like a destro 3 ’ing fiend, and he bent down 
and kissed her red, sweet lips until she cried 
out for mercy. 

Then he gently clasped her in his arms, 
drawing her head close against his breast, 
and thus they sat, lost to time, to everything 
but their love and the dim, vague delight of 
the music which swelled out from the house 
behind them with just the passionate, rhythmic 


A DREAM OF A MODERN WOOING I43 

sadness inseparable from perfect orchestral 
waltz music, until she suddenly sprang to her 
feet with a startled cry. 

“What is it, darling?*’ he questioned, 
frightened himself by her evident terror. 
“What scared you, sweetheart?” 

The people from the ball-room came run- 
ning out, and she hastily, shamefaced!}^ 
explained that she had thought a face had 
looked over the rail close to her own. 

“Somebody who wanted to watch the danc- 
ing, and jumped down again when they 
found they could see nothing,” was the gen- 
eral verdict, but when they were alone again 
Arthur asked, tenderly, “What was it really, 
dear? What did you see, or think you saw?” 
For a little she hesitated, unwilling to tell 
him, but at last she whisperingly said that she 
had seen Father Bertram’s face gazing sadly 
into her own. 

“ Oh, hang Father Bertram !”was her lover’s 
response, all his vague jealousy and distrust 
of his unacknowledged rival returning. 
“You’re always thinking of him, that’s what’s 
the matter. It’s a pity you must fancy you 
see him when we are so happy.” 

“But I did see him,” she sobbed, utterly 


144 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


upset by the phantom face, and his harshness, 
“and he looked so sadly and reproachfully at 
me. What do you think it was, Arthur?*’ and 
she shivered uncontrollably. 

“I think it was your own nervousness, 
dear,” he answered, his wrath quelled by her 
tears, “and that you were thinking of him.” 

“But I wasn’t,” she said, shivering again, 
but he made no answer save to wrap her fleecy 
white shawl more closely about her, and to 
suggest, gently lifting her to her feet, that 
thy walk about until she was warm again. 

“Or shall we go in and da4ice?” he asked 
her, but she quickly responded, “No, I’d 
rather stay out here and be quiet.” 

“All right,” he said, drawing her arm more 
tightly through his own and caressing it with 
his unoccupied hand, “All right, we’ll stay 
here, and talk of cheerful things.” 

Under his tender care she gradually re- 
covered from her unreasonable fright, but she 
still remained firmly convinced that she had 
really seen the face of her friend, and she was 
glad to turn from the recollection to a more 
pleasant subject — themselves. 

Presently, when she had ceased to tremble 
and could even smile, Arthur began upon an- 


A DREAM OF A MODERN WOOING 


HS 


Other topic which he specially desired to dis- 
cuss. 

“Little girl,” he began, “now you have 
given up so much for me” (Dorothy started. 
Had she given up? she had thought the matter 
but an imaginar}^ one), “I wonder if you 
would be willing to forego something else you 
like.” 

She looked at him confidingly, but did not 
speak, so he went on: 

“I mean, dear, whether you would be will- 
ing to leave this gay place and go to some 
quiet country farm and spend the rest of the 
summer, just by ourselves.” 

“I’d rather,” she sad, with a radiant smile, 
and he responded briskly, “Then we’ll go to- 
morrow. The othei people are all tired of 
this place, I know, and are onlj^ waiting for 
us to give the sign. But I thought,” with a 
swift glance at her down-bent head and half- 
averted face, “that perhaps as you were re- 
ceiving so much admiration you would want 
to stay on indefinitely.” 

“Oh no,” she whispered back, “I only care 
for your admiration, you know; and now, I 
shall never be happy here again.” 

An impatient retort of “still thinking of 


146 THE STORY OF A DREAM 

that fanc}^” rose to his lips, but he repressed 
it, and merely remarked that she seemed very 
tired and had better go to bed. 

‘•Yes,” she murmuringly said, “I’m so 
tired, dear, and I don’t want to go through 
that room,” indicating the ball-room, “ again. 
Find auntie and bring her out here.” 

He complied, and soon appeared not only 
accompanied by Mrs. Stonehenge, but also by 
his mother and her husband. 

“What is the matter with you, little girl?” 
inquired the latter, who had a very genuine 
fondness for Dorothy, “you look as if 3^00 
had seen a ghost.” 

“So she thinks she has, ”her lover answered 
for her, the satire in his tones only half hidden 
by his open laughter, “ and the sight has upset 
her sadly.” 

Mr. Prescott looked from one to the other 
of the lovers keenl}^ suspecting a quarrel, but 
his wife spoke sharply to her son. 

“I hope you haven’t been scolding her on 
account of her natural enjo3'ment of the 
dancing and her partners,” she said in a stern 
undertone, and Arthur answered quickl}’ and 
indignantly, “No, indeed, mother, it’s that 
confounded face she fancied she saw that has 
made her look so white.” 


A. DREAM OF A MODERN WOOING 


147 


Mrs. Prescott was not convinced, but she 
turned to Dorothy, who was trying to talk 
brightly to Mrs. Stonehenge, and said, 
affectionately, “Let me go upstairs with you, 
dearie.” 

Dorothy assented gratefully, and they 
disappeared up the stairway together. At the 
turn of the stairs they stopped, and Dorothy 
threw a loving look back at Arthur, who 
watched her solicitously from below, but even 
then her face was so sad that the other two 
watchers started and looked at each other 
anxiously. 

“I wonder if that young rogue has reajly 
been scolding her; she’s entirely too good for 
him,” said Mr. Prescott, who was the very 
opposite, the antipodes, of his stepson’s light, 
happy, pleasure-loving, thoughtless nature, 
and had but little sympathy with him, his 
character possessing a little of the hardness 
which belongs to strong, firm, faithful souls; 
and Mrs. Stonehenge shook her head silently. 
She suspected the truth, and was sorry for 
both, thinking, as she did, that Arthur was 
bound to be defeated. 

“Poor children,” she said softly, and all 
the evening and f^r into the sleepless night 


148 THE STORY OF A DREAM 

Dorothy’s sad face haunted her with its 
vague alarm and distress. 

Poor Dorothy! No wonder she was sad at 
heart. She had parted with the thing for 
which women long so deeply, so seldom at- 
tain in its fullness and part with so lightly, at 
the request of love or ambition, the glorious 
boon of Liberty. . 

Now the night upon which I dreamed this 
dream I suffered a moment of the severest 
agon}^ in the brief time in which my face looked 
upon Dorothy, but in the morning I remem- 
'bered nothing of the pain which had troubled 
me all night. Only, — the next day I awoke 
with a haunting sense of loss and sadness, such 
as often comes to men when they awake after 
a night of supposed dreams in which they have 
lived through man}" experiences the memory 
of which has passed from them, and I carried 
that feeling of desolation about with me all 
day. Besides, the dream-life was slowly 
stealing from me all the vitality I possessed, , 
and my body ached with the fierce strain 
of that moment during which the soul had 
left it to appear to my other soul, my life, my 
love,— -Dorothy. 


A DREAM OF A MODERN WOOING 1 49 

But that night I dreamed another dream, 
a dream of ancient Assyria, and this was the 
dream which came to me as I lay upon my 
bed. 


CHAPTER XII. 


A DREAM OF THE SLAYING OF THE YOUTH. 

The dawn was just creeping rosil}^ over the 
topmost summit of the hill on which the youth 
who was betrothed' to the maiden watched 
his sheep, and the birds in the vinej^ard were 
faintly calling to each other. The drops of 
dew still sparkled on the grass-blades and the 
harvest-stubble, and the sheep still slept. 
Down in the valley no creature was astir save 
the Israelite, who was making ready to depart, 
but on the hill the youth watched sleeplessly. 
All night he had watched thus, and now, 
when he saw the Israelite leading his beast 
to the stream to drink, he made haste to pass 
down the hill and stand at the casement of 
the maiden. 

“Awake, awake, beloved, and let me into 
thy chamber,” he called softly to her, and 
she heard him and came running to the case- 
ment. 


150 


A DREAM OF THE SLAVING OF THE VOUTH 15! 

“Surely 1 did think — ” she began, but he 
interrupted her. 

“I know,” he said,, with the accent and 
speech of a man wounded in battle, “thou 
didst think it was th}^ lover, the Israelite. Be- 
hold, even now he makes ready to depart to 
his own land and leave thee behind.” 

Now the maiden, when she heard him 
speak thus, grew white and faint and she 
clung to the casement as though she would 
have fallen, and the youth, reaching his hand 
to her, did hold her up, and she clung to him 
as he said: 

“Let me come into thy chamber, beloved, 
and help thee make ready to stay him. Or 
if I may not enter,do thou make haste to meet 
me at the door, else will he go without thee.” 

And the maiden did as he had said and 
came, creeping, to the door, and the youth 
grasping her hand to stay her, did say: 

“Beloved, take heart. He shall not leave 
thee behind, else will I kill him. I will care 
for thine honor. Only trust thyself to me, 
and compel thy limbs to carry thee, so that 
thou goest not to him leaning on my arm.” 

And the maiden, her tears flowing, did say 
to the youth, “Ah, would to God I had 


152 THE STORY OF A DREAM 

loved thee, had been true to thee as thou hast 
been to me! But now am I undone.” 

And the face of the youth was like that 
of an angel, and his voice like the sound of 
gently flowing streams, as he made answer. 

“Do not grieve, beloved,” he whispered 
softly, so that the Israelite, returning, might 
not hear, “do not grieve for that which is 
past and which was not ordained of God. 
Surely thou art scarcel}^ to blame,” and with 
many such words did he comfort her. 

But the maiden still wept, and she said to 
him sorrowfully, “And wilt thou forgive me 
this wrong which I have done thee?” and her 
tears fell like rain. 

But the youth, albeit his heart was wrung 
within him, made answer after this wise: 

“ Beloved,” were his tender words, “for all 
the wrong which thou hast done to me I do 
forgive thee freely, and I love thee more than 
I did in the days of my happiness in our 
betrothal. And for this reason will I see that 
the cowardly dog of an Israelite shall not 
leave thee to mourn. Lo! he returns, and 
thinks not to find thee here. Go thou to him 
now, and co nstrain him once_ more to take 
thee with him, and if he wdll not, then will 
I come to thine aid.” 


A DREAM OF THE SLAYING OF THE YOUTH I53 

And the maiden did as he had said and 
went forth to meet the Israelite. Now the 
Israelite had thought to depart unknown 
while the family still slept, and he started 
when the maiden did stand before him, yet 
spake he no word, only he lifted his sacks of 
grain to the back of the beast. 

And when he would himself have mounted, 
the maiden did seize his hand, and she wept 
as she said, “And will my lord indeed depart 
thus, and leave his beloved behind? Nay, 
my lord, take me^ with thee, else wilt thou 
deliver me to death,” and his hand was wet 
with her tears. 

Now the heart of the Israelite was sore 
troubled within him, yet repented he not of 
his evil mind, but spake sternly to the maiden, 
saying: 

“And canst thou, a maiden, thus constrain 
me? Get thee back to thy father’s house, 
and trouble me no more. Is not our friend- 
ship over?” and his face was like iron. 

Now the youth, hearing him speak thus, 
grew very wroth, and his hand closed upon 
the handle of the sword he had girded upon 
his side, yet he moved not, for he thought 
that the maiden would overcome the Israelite 
and compel him to entreat her rightly. 


154 THE STORV OP' A DREAM 

And the maiden, lifting her sad face to the 
Israelite, made answer: “And speakest thou 
of friendship to me? Oh, my beloved, my 
beloved, my heart is breaking. I cannot 
live without thee,” and again her hand clung 
to the edge of his robe. But he shook it oil 
and leaped into the saddle, saying, “Surely 
thou must indeed live without me, for even 
now I depart, and thou wilt see me no more,” 
and he made as though he would spur the 
beast. 

But the maiden, flinging herself on her 
knees beside the beast, clung to his stirrup 
and wept aloud, beseeching him not to leave 
her, and he spurned her with his foot, and 
spurred the beast, leaving her to lie hopeless 
in the dust. 

And at this and the bitter cry which broke 
from her, the youth sprang from the shelter 
of the doorway and caught the bridle of the 
Israelite, saying, “Come back, thou dog of 
an Israelite, come back to the damsel whom 
thou hast wounded even unto death.” 

Now the Israelite was exceeding wroth, 
yet he spake no word, for the face of the 
youth was that of an avenging God, and the 
Israelite feared him; yet tugged he at the 


A DREAM OF THE SLAYING OF THE YOUTH 1 55 

bridle rein, and would have departed, but that 
the youth held firm. 

Then the Israelite asked of him, and said: 
“What hast thou to do with this quarrel? 
Surely thou dost love the maiden, and I leave 
her in good hands; thou wilt save her from 
death and shame.” But he was pale with 
terror, and the youth was like a mighty war- 
rior. 

Then the youth turned to the maiden, 
who still lay where the Israelite had spurned 
her, and lifting her with one hand, he said, 
“Beloved, choose thou between this man and 
me. Which of us twain wilt thou have for 
thine husband?” 

And the maiden, weeping still and bitterly, 
made answer, “I love the Israelite.” 

“Then shall he marry thee,” was the brave 
speech of the youth. “ I would have wedded 
thee with gladness, even as thou art, but thou 
hast chosen, and thy choice is good. He 
shall marry thee to-day, and take thee to his 
own country.” 

But the Israelite made answer, fiercely: “I 
will not marry the maiden. How could I 
take an Ishmaelitish maiden to my father’s 
house? Truly I will not marry her.” 


156 THE STORY OF A DREAM 

“Then shalt thou die,” was the swift an- 
swer of the youth; “verily, if thou weddest 
not this maiden I will kill thee. Shalt thou 
indeed go scatheless to thine own country, 
and, taking her heart with thee, leave her 
body behind? Verily shalt thou marry her, 
else will I kill thee,” and he drew his sword. 

But the Israelite answered angrily, “I war 
not with striplings,” and when the youth, in 
his hot anger, would have struck him, he 
drew his own sword also and pierced him 
through the heart so that he gave an exceed- 
ing bitter cry and fell lifeless to the ground, 
with his blood staining the white robe of the 
maiden, and his dead face turned up to the 
cloudless heavens. 

And the maiden fell on her knees beside 
him as he lay there wrapped in the dignity 
and silence of death, and her heart was sore 
for her old playmate, and the youth to whom 
she had been betrothed. And as she knelt, 
trying to stanch the blood pouring from his 
wounded heart with the long sleeves of her 
robe, so that her white arms were colored 
with his blood, she remembered his love and 
his faithfulness, and she wept again. 

“Oh, thou Great Heart,” she moaned 


A DREAM OF THE SLAYING OF THE YOUTH 1 57 

“would God I had died in thy place, thou 
noble soul I Would God I had loved thee 
more!” 

And laying her head, with only her long, 
waving hair for covering, on his bleeding 
breast, she pressed his stone-cold hands be- 
tween her own, and wept as those who sor- 
row without hope. 

“I shall never see thee more,” was the 
voice of her mourning, “and thou hast died 
for me,” and thus she lay and sorrowed while 
the sun rose slowly over the purple edge of 
the mountains and the sheep on the hill behind 
began to bleat for want of their accustomed 
care. 

And thus she lay when her father, wakened 
by the tumult and her weeping, came out to 
see who had given utterance to that exceeding 
bitter cry. 

And as he carried her to her mother, he 
asked sternly, “Who has done this thing? 
Who has slain thine well-beloved?” And 
when she made answer, weeping sore, “It is 
the Israelite,” he cursed him, and the maiden 
swooned. But she told them not when she 
was revived again that she loved the Israelite, 
and they knew it not for many days. 


158 THE STORY OF A DREAM 

And when she slept on her mother’s breast, 
her father stole softly out again, taking care 
not to waken her, and the youth still lay there 
with his accusing face appealing to the God 
in whom he had trusted, but the Israelite had 
fled, and was far on the way to his own coun- 
try. 

Now this dream troubled me sorely, but I 
mourned neither for the maiden nor the youth 
to whom she was betrothed so much as for the 
Israelite; yet I knew not that I myself, Fa- 
ther Bertram, had, in those far-away days, 
been the Israelite, and that my tenderness 
for' him was but the tenderness which a 
man feels for his own soul. Now I know, and I 
pity myself no more, but in those days, — ah, I 
was sad and sorry both for the man I was 
then, and also for the man I had been, not 
knowing that he was a previous incarnation 
of my own soul. 

And in my life-dream I. sorrowed much 
about this time, and grew very weak because 
of the constant efforts made by my soul to 
protect itself and appear again to Dorothy 
But I never succeeded in making her see me 
again, save once only, although I W9S near 
her constantly. 


A DREAM OF THE SLAYING OF THE YOUTH I59 

But there are none so blind as those who 
do not wish to see, and even if she had not 
tried, as I now know she did, to shut me 
from her thoughts, to close her mind against 
me, and keep out all recollections of my per- 
sonality, she would have been unable to see 
me, being dominated by the will of another, 
antagonistic to myself, and guarded, prisoned 
by the walls of Love. 

Love is a mighty power, and sometimes it 
quickens the soul-sight wonderfully. But 
no great vision, no spiritual insight ever came 
to the spirit which is wrapped in the dulling 
folds of a rrherely mortal love. And albeit 
Dorothy loved that other dearly now, in this 
one little life-dream, he was not her soul-com- 
pletion, for I was the other half of her sweet 
soul. 

Still in dreams I watched her every move- 
ment, loved, sorrowed, joyed with her, and al- 
though my suffering was as that of a wounded 
soldier dying of thirst within hearing and 
sight of a cool, sweet stream, by night, yet 
mercifully I knew nothing of it b}^ day. Else 
my grief would have been more than I could 
bear, for I was fighting a desperate, manful, 
losing battle with myself, and all the time I 


i6o 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


had a bitter, dim consciousness that my labor 
was in vain. 

Yet, much as the dreams pained me, sad as 
was the sense of desolation they left with me 
each morning, greatly as it added to my 
already hard burden, I longed for them, and 
they always came. 

And this was one of the most bitter which 
I dreamed, and which was preserved in the 
astral light for my future reading. 


CHAPTER XIIL 


A DREAM OF THE BREAKING OF THE FAITH. 

The day following the dance the party of 
which Dorothy formed, perhaps, the central 
figure, journeyed away to a farm far in the 
depths of the country, and hardly had they 
settled here, happy in their sylvan seclusion, 
before Arthur began the work he hoped to 
accomplish in the breaking up of Dorothy’s 
faith in the religion to which she held so 
strong a love. To begin with, he made love 
to her so sweetly that her worshiping tender- 
ness for him grew stronger than all the 
powers of her own nature combined, precisely 
as a graft set in a tree will frequently draw 
to itself all the vitality of the original growth 
and in a short time reduce the old tree to a 
bent, gnarled, twisted caricature of what it 
formerly was, and although the tree of Doro- 
thy’s character grew daily more fair to look 
upon, more sweet to taste, it still was a graft, 
161 


i 62 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


albeit flavored and colored and shaped by her 
own innate goodness. People who are much 
together grow alike, “drink into each other’s 
spirits,” as the old North-countrj^ saying is, 
and with newly-engaged couples this is often 
extremely noticeable. 

With Dorothy the king could do no wrong ; 
Arthur’s very faults were glorified into virtues 
in her eyes, and as a child easily adapts it- 
self to circumstances disliked at first, so Doro- 
thy, forgetting herself entirely, believed things 
right merely because her lover told her so. 

“For of such is the kingdom of heaven.” 
Where is such meekness to be found as in one 
whom Love is teaching the greatest of les- 
sons? Humility, thy name is Love ; and Love, 
thou art verily Humility. 

In this state of mind for the ardent young 
man to impress his own individual opinions 
upon the plastic mind of the loving girl was 
an easy matter, and so evident was her defer- 
ence to him that the older people smiled re- 
gretfully as they watched it. 

“It’s a pity about that little girl,” said Mrs. 
Prescott one day, as she watched the young 
people strolling up and down in the shady, 
cool, green-roofed orchard, the girl’s face 


A DREAM OF THE BREAKING OF THE FAITH 163 

turned up to that of her companion with an air 
of confidence and admiration pretty to see, but 
boding ill for her future independence; “she’s 
making trouble for herself,” and in her con- 
cern for Dorothy’s future, she moved so en- 
ergetically that the hammock in which her 
beautiful figure reposed lazily swung with 
unwonted speed, and the pillow behind her 
head fell to the ground. Her husband res- 
cued it with the calmness and easy speed of 
a man who has become used to watching for 
the opportunity to perform such acts of affec- 
tionate attention, and she continued, after a 
smile of thanks: 

“Yes, it’s a great pity one can’t warn her 
not to show her love for that boy of mine so 
openly, because she’s so innocent she wouldn’t 
understand, but it’s a cruel pity that she will 
do it.” 

“Why,” asked Mrs. Stonehenge, who 
was calmly swaying back and forth in the 
big colonial rocker on the “front stoop” 
which was the pride of their hostess, “Why 
shouldn’t she show that she loves him?” 

In her heart she understood and sym- 
pathized with the drift of her friend’s speech, 
and the thought which lay behind it, but she 


164 the story of a dream 

did not wish, in her loyal affection for the son 
of her adoption, to admit as much to his mother. 

“Why?” rejoined the latter, sitting up so 
energeticall}" that the pillow again lay in the 
dust, and was again restored to its place by 
her lover of twenty years’ married standing, 
“Why? Because a slave shouldn’t forge his 
own chains. That boy kissing Dorothy there 
is a tyrant, like his mother,” with a laughing 
glance in the direction of her husband, “and 
he’s got the natural tyranny of mankind in ad- 
dition. Now I don’t believe in the new woman 
and all that rubbish, but I do like to see a 
woman with a will of her own. How much 
say do you suppose that dear little child is 
going to have in the disposal of her future life? 
She’s the mental slave of Arthur now, and 
she’ll be his slave bodily before a year has 
passed. And when the glamour of the honey- 
moon is over he’ll be over his attack of love- 
fever too, and Dorothy will have to face the 
life-long disappointment of finding how far 
the ideal is from the real.” 

Her eyes were flashing, her cheeks glow- 
ing, and she looked s young and charming 
that her husband stifled a sigh for his own 
disappointment, and inquired, with a patient 


A DREAM OE THE BREAKING OP THE FAITH 165 

look, “Has marriage been so bitter to you, 
my dear?” 

“No,” she answered, flashing a look of real 
love to him, “it hasn’t been so bitter to me, 
dear, but it has to you. The disappointment 
has been on your side, because you were the 
member of the firm who worshiped an ideal. 
You know that every day since we got 
married you have grieved in secret because 
I was not, am not, and can never be, the 
woman you dreamed I was. Now, own up 
honestly, isn’t it so?” 

Her husband smiled quietly. He was sure 
of her tolerant affection if not love, and his 
love for her was as warm and strong as ever. 
Some natures grow and feed upon disap- 
pointments, just as others become sour in the 
process. 

“ I don’t see the use of discussing such ques- 
tions,” he said slowly, with a gentle touch 
upon her hand, which lay on the hammock- 
rope nearest to him. “I knew an elderly man 
once who had married a young wife, and af- 
terwards she made a slave of him, and exhib- 
ited his degradation to all their world. 

“We fellows used to remonstrate with him 
sometimes, and tell him to resist her and be 


1 66 THE STORY OF A DREAM 

a man again, but he never took our advice. 
When we would make remarks of this kind, 
which, being young and foolishly sympa- 
thetic, we did with a frequenc}^ as irritating as 
it was in bad taste, he always answered : ‘It’s 
too late in the day, youngsters; when old 
fools marry young wives they must take the 
consequences.’ I can see his ruminative 
smile now. 

“Now I say, too, ‘When would-be philoso- 
phers marry beautiful butterflies the}^ also 
must take the consequences.’ We have had 
a pretty good time of it together, on the 
whole, my dear, and, to quote my old friend 
again, ‘it’s too late in the day to talk of disap- 
pointment. ’ We love each other still, I think. ” 

“Of course we do,” was Mrs. Prescott’ 
quick answer, returning the pressure of 
his hand, “but that doesn’t alter the question 
we were discussing. Each of us has kept our 
own personality intact, but it isn’t always so. 
Now I’m going to quote a friend too. I 
knew a girl once who married a man who 
loved her as much as she did him, which is 
saying a great deal, but he always insisted 
upon having his own way, and she always 
yielded, until she had lost the Dower to do 
anything else. 


A DREAM OF THE BREAKING OF THE FAITH 1 67 

“After she married I lost sight of her for 
some time, but one night at a reception she 
came up to me, and called me by my maiden 
name. 

“‘You are Marian Strong,’ she said, and 
after I had gazed at her for a moment I 
answered, ‘And you are Mrs. Langdon, — 
Bella Brown.’ 

“‘Not Bella Brown any more,’ she said 
with a sad smile, ‘I used to be that happy 
individual, but I have been Mrs. Langdon so 
long that there is very little of Bella Brown 
remaining. ’ 

“Now she loved her husband in a quite 
idyllic way, and was happy in her marriage, 
but she couldn’t help regretting her own sac- 
rificed personality, as any woman not a fool 
or an idiot would. No man has a right to* 
ask or think of. requiring such a sacrifice, and 
no woman should yield it for the sake of the 
rest of her sex.” 

She stopped suddenly, as Dorothy drew 
near, still hanging confidingly on her lover's 
arm, and caught her breath sharply, and as 
the sweethearts v;andered off again, her hus- 
band asked her, half jokingly, “Why so 
excited, my dear, and what effect does the 


1 68 THE STORY OF A DREAM 

subjugation of a single woman have upon the 
rest of her sex?” 

‘‘The same effect that the single woman has 
who wears slaughtered birds or buys at bar- 
gain counters or church bazaars the articles 
which have cheated some other woman out 
of the work, or money, or food she needs,” 
she rejoined, earnestly. ‘If I didn’t do it 
somebod}^ else would,’ they say, but if every 
one would cease wrong or foolish doings on 
their own account, the world would be re- 
formed and the millennium come. 

“And I am excited because I know how 
Dorothy will suffer when Arthur’s cooling 
love allows her to discover how much less 
true he is than herself, and compels her to 
mourn over the fact that she is no longer 
Dorothy Perseus, a free woman, but Mrs. 
Arthur Brampton, a legalized slave.” 

“Oh, come, my dear,” remonstrated her 
husband, “not the last necessarily.” 

“Yes, necessarily, with a husband of Ar- 
thur’s temperament,” was the decided answer, 
“and even if she never knows of the change, 
the change will come, unfortunately. Many 
a man or woman grows to be a weaker, poorer 
copy of their husband or wife, who would 


A DREAM OK THE BREAKING OK THE FAITH 1 69 


have been much nicer had they formed their 
character on the original pattern furnished by 
God. 

“ I, for one, shall watch Dorothy Perseus, 
sweet little girl as she is, turn to a weak rep- 
lica of my son, with many a heartache. And 
this is what will surely happen, and so I say 
it’s a great pity she shows her love so much, 
because it will facilitate the process, indefi- 
nitely.” 

‘‘I don’t think her love itself is a pity,” 
said Mrs. Stonehenge, who had listened 
eagerly to this conversation, dropping her 
embroidery as she spoke; “I canH think such 
a deep affection is to be regretted.” 

“Oh, but it is a pity,” broke in Mrs. Pres- 
cott, “it gives him such an advantage. His 
love is as moonshine unto sunlight, and as 
water unto wine, compared to hers, and in- 
stinctively he knows it, and it w'ill help him 
to enslave her. A woman who loves is utterly 
defenseless anyway, and when she loves as 
Dorothy, does she might as well lay down her 
arms at once, before the battle begins. But 
it’s a cruel, heart-breaking pity just the same.” 

“Love is never a pity, my dear,” said Mr. 
Prescott, earnestly ; “it more than pays for 


170 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


the suffering it causes in the refinement and 
tenderness it gives to the character. And 
now, my ‘legalized slave,’” with a tender, 
laughing glance, and gentl}^ laying her unre- 
sisting form back upon the hammock pillow 
again, “let us drop the subject, and go for 
a row upon the ‘crik,’ to use the parlance of 
the natives.” 

Mrs. Prescott acquiesced, but she wore the 
look of a person who is still convinced of the 
truth of a cherished opinion, and she cast a 
pitying, regretful look at Dorothy as she 
passed her, a look which the happy girl found 
it impossible to understand. But Mrs. Stone- 
henge understood it, and she too looked a 
little sad as she watched the joyous pair. 
Dorothy had behaved to her with such sweet 
tenderness of late, since the one great love 
had paved the way for all others, that she had 
crept into the heart of the older lady, in a 
strange, incomprehensible fashion, and her 
heart was heavy as she realized what was the 
subject of the earnest, absorbing conversation 
between the two she loved so dearly. 

Meanwhile, down in the cqoI shade of the 
trees branching overhead, Arthur had grad- 
ually brought the subject round to religion, 


A DREAM OF FDE BREAKING OF THE FAITH 1 7 1 

then taken the breatli away from the child 
who loved him so entirely by telling her that 
he not only believed in no recognized relig- 
ion, but that he was an atheist, a term which, 
to his unsophisticated sweetheart, was more 
dreadful than that of “murderer.” Only fora 
brief space, however, for she speedily re- 
flected that since Arthur could not do wrong, 
(Oh, foolish, unanswerable, faulty logic of 
Love!) it could not be wrong to think 
and talk in a way which had hitherto seemed 
to her the depths of the blackness of utter 
perdition. 

“Don’t you believe in God?” she asked at 
length, when she had recovered from the first 
shock of surprise, and he boldly counter- 
questioned, “ What is God ? Define your idea 
of him, or,” with a faint sneer, “it.” 

She was silent, hardly knowing how, on 
the spur of the moment, to do that which has 
baffled the deepest thinkers, reasoners and 
controversialists of the world, and he, think- 
ing her half convinced, continued proudlj^: 

“You can’t do it, darling; nobody can. 
The ideas and mental images men have 
formed of the Deity are as diversified as the 
men themselves, and colored by personal and 


172 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


national temperament, as witness the lovely 
Gods of the ancient beauty-loving Greeks, 
and the mud idols of the South Sea Islanders. 
But never a man has defined God in plain, 
understandable terms, and no one ever will. 
For you cannot describe that of which you 
have no clear mental conception. 

“Most people think of God as a larger man, 
but such a view is absurd, for God is supposed 
to be infinitely superior to man, and even a 
wicked man would not be guilty of the things 
commonly attributed to God. humanity 
shrinks from the cruelty, the injustice, the 
hard-heartedness which allows or institutes 
the things which religionists tell us are 
caused by ‘the will of God.’ If the will of 
God is what it is said to be, then it is a wicked 
will, not deserving of respect and slavish 
obedience, much less of admiration and vener- 
ation. And if the things said of God are un- 
true, and he is possessed of the powers and 
might credited to him, why does he not set 
the matter right? As it is, he stands before 
thinking minds convicted not^only of incon- 
sistency, but of cruelty beyond that of any 
man who overlived. 

“ What man, for instance, would think for an 


A DREAM OF THE BREAKING OF THE FAITH 1 73 

instant of punishing weak, helpless little chil- 
dren for what their parents had done? and no 
man, however cruel, would demand the sacri- 
tices which God is supposed to do every day. 
So we see that God can not be a person, and if 
not a person, what is he?” 

“I do not know,” she answered dreamily; 
“who does know?” He smiled triumphantly, 
and asked, “Do you think God is a law?” 
“Yes,” she said softly, “I think he is a 
law.” 

Again he smiled and said, with the ring of 
coming victory in his voice, “Then the law 
must be blind, for how else could suchiri'eg- 
ularities occur? Law gives all a chance, that 
is, a sensible, useful law does, but what chance 
do the majority of mankind have? Many 
are hopelessly handicapped before they are 
born at all, and many more fight a useless, 
hopeless battle against fate all their lives Jong 
and die at last in despair. What law save that 
of selfish ignorance could produce such effects 
as these?” He ceased and looked at her as 
though the matter was ended, but she said 
again, more softly than before, “All the same 
I think God is a Law.” 

“Then why do you pray to a thing which 


174 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


you have owned to be unchangeable?” he 
asked with a quiet smile. “For law cannot 
change tq suit the individual wants of any 
one person. And yet you believers make 
long prayers in which 3 ^ou tell the Being you 
worship just what he ought to do under the 
particular circumstances which trouble you, 
you ask him for a number of things you do 
not want and could not use if you had them, 
you confess and bewail sins you mean to com- 
mit again, and you always end by saying 
that the reason you do all these things is not 
because they are right and good, but simply 
for the sake of a man who died centuries ago, 
and who never claimed to possess the powers 
you attribute to him. Now I call such behavior 
cowaidly and childish; I had rather go 
through life as best I can, and bear whatever 
comes to me like a man, than ask help from 
something I can neither understand nor revere, 
and which I never think about save when 1 
am in trouble, which is what the majority of 
people do, in regard to their religion. And 
when I must meet the mystery called death, 
I mean to do so biavely, with the calm belief 
that it is just as natural as birth, and as pain- 
less, According to my way of thinking, only 


A DREAM OF THE BREAKING OF THE FAITH I 75 

a weak coward will believe in prayer or prac- 
tice it.” 

“Well, I may be a coward,” she rejoined, 
a little indignantly, “but I do believe "in 
prayer, and I know that God is not the thing 
you describe.” 

“Then what is he?” he asked. “If he is 
not a person, not a law, not a nonentity, what 
is he or it?” 

She hesitated for a moment, not having his 
gift of fluent speech, but after a little she said 
triumphantly, as the memory of a long-gone- 
by Sunday-school lesson recurred to her, 
“God is a Spirit.” 

“What is a spirit?” he asked again, and 
again she was at a loss for an answer. “Do 
you mean the popular conception of a spirit,” 
he continued, “which is a ghost, a wraith, or 
do you attach some deeper meaning to the 
word ?” 

He saw that he had cornered her, and as 
she rernained silent, he smiled and said again, 
“'Can you define spirit, or do you give the 
matter up?” 

“Oh, I give up,” she answered, with a 
burst of genuine annoyance. “I can’t argue 
as you can, and it isn't necessary to define 
God in order to know that he exists,” 


I 76 THE STORY OF A DREAM 

Delighted that at last she had come to the 
vei*}^ point he wished her to reach, he laughed ; 
she flashed a curious glance of mingled anger 
and admiratign at him, and he answered it 
as follows: “Ah! but how do ^^ou know that 
he does exist? What proof have you of the 
truth of such a theory? Have you ever seen 
him? Then how do you know that there is 
a God at all?’’ 

He was watching her closel}’, and he was 
a little disconcerted by the horrified gaze she 
turned upon him. She had understood that 
he was an atheist, had pityingly conceded that 
he musl be right. But she had never fully 
realized what the word meant until now, when 
confronted with the hardness of its meaning. 

“No God at all!” she exclaimed. “Wh}^ 
how could the world exist without some mov- 
ing power controlling it?” 

“Well, can you prove it?” he asked, seeing 
her evident distress, and desirous of convinc- 
ing her once for all, but she was stung to 
anger now, and she answered hastily: “Can 
I prove that I am alive? Then how do you 
know I am? How do you know that this 
fern,” touching a graceful frond of maiden- 
hair which grew by her side, “is not a 


A DREAM OF THE BREAKING OF THE FAITH 1 77 

tree or a raspberry-bush? How do you know 
that that flower over there is growing? Did 
you ever see a flower grow?” And shocked 
and startled, she would talk of the subject no 
more. 

For the remainder of the day she was a 
little distant, and the afternoon did not pass 
as pleasantly as usual, but next morning he 
began again, a little more carefully, and be- 
fore the week ended she brought the matter 
up herself. 

‘‘Arthur,” she said timidly, “I’d rather be- 
lieve in God than not.” 

“Well, please yourself, of course,” he 
answered, smiling; “it is a harmless belief in 
the abstract, and if it comforts you to hold on 
to it, do so by all means, but allowing that 
there is a God, do you think that he is just? 
Why, if he is all-wise and powerful and 
good, does he always put the wrong people 
in the wrong places? Why does he let 
cruelty and tyranny reign supreme, and evil 
prevail over good? Wh}' do such women 
as auntie long for children on which to ex- 
pend their affections, while babies by the 
hundred are murdered every year? Why is 
the world so easy a place for strong men and 


178 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


wicked women, while little innocent children, 
dumb beasts, and innocent, good girls, sulTer 
the tortures of the lost and there is none to 
help them. Don’t talk to me of God,” he con- 
tinued, getting excited with his subject, for, 
to do him justice, he really believed what he 
said, and firmly imagined that by thus break- 
ing down her faith he was doing her a service. 
“Don't talk to me of God. The devil is more 
real than he, and he is only a myth created 
by men’s imagination, a bugbear wherewith 
to scare those timid souls who, in conse- 
quence, live the life of a toad under a harrow. 
God, according to his own followers and be- 
lievers, is responsible for so much of wrong 
and cruelt}^ that the mere mention of his name 
makes my blood boil.” 

“But, Arthur,” she began again timidly, 
“you forget all about Jesus Christ. You know 
he instituted the gospel of love.” 

“No, I don’t forget, little girl,” he told 
her rather patronizingly, “but he brought the 
world nothing new, nothing which had not 
been taught for centuries before. Now don’t 
mistake m}^ position, dear heart,” seeing that 
her e3^es were dim with tears, and that her 
lips were quivering; “I have the greatest 


A DREAM OF THE BREAKING OF THE FAITH I 79 

respect and admiration for the life and doc- 
trines and character of the Nazarene called 
Jesus. He lived as nearly a Godlike life as 
possible, and he died for his principle. I 
fully admit that if every one would follow the 
rules he laid down, the world would be far 
sweeter to live in, but who does? ‘Love 
your enemies,’ he told his disciples, and all 
the religious bodies war with one another. 
‘Blessed are the meek,’ and who so proud 
as many church members? ‘Blessed are the 
poor,’ and the churches are decked with sil- 
ver and gold, while the poor whom the Christ 
recommended to the loving care of his fol- 
lowers in words which, for beauty and tender- 
ness, have never been surpassed, starve in the 
streets in the winter. Talk of Jesus Christ! 

I fancy that if he should come down to earth 
to-da}^ his noble heart would break with 
disappointment, and a priest of to-day must 
either be a hypocrite or break his heart like- 
wise, to see the sin and sorrow of the world 
and his own inability to better it. Who is 
Christlike nowadays?” 

“But, dear,” she murmured, loath to be 
defeated, yet feeling the ground slipping from 
beneath her feet slowly, while she vainly 


l8o THE STORY OF A DREAM 

caught at straws to stay the mighty current 
of his overmastering will, “if you admire 
Christ as you say, you must believe in him.” 

“Not as a Savior, darling,” he answered, 
smiling at her innocence of distinctions, 
“merely as a good man. Believe me, little girl, 
no power in all the created or uncreated 
universe can save us from destruction but our 
own selves. The Ego, the God within us, 
is that to which we must look for salvation, if 
salvation there be, and it is needed, and no 
one, Christ or heathen, can save a man from 
the consequences of a sin or a mistake.” 

She made no answer, but he responded to 
her incredulous look b}^ saying: “Why, even 
the religionists know this. ‘Godforgives sins,’ 
they say; yes, but if a man commits murder 
God does not prevent him from being hung 
if he is caught, and if a man gets drunk God 
will not keep him from the headache which 
will follow next morning. Let your idol go, 
m3' sweetheart; love is a better God than that 
of the churches.” 

And thus he talked and argued, day after 
day, backing up his opinions with the com- 
pelling magic of love, enforcing belief in them 
by tender caresses, and day after day she 


A DREAM OF THE BREAKING OF THE FAITH l8l 


listened, while he went on hashing and re- 
hashing the worn, threadbare old arguments 
wherewith men have ‘‘ disquieted themselves 
in vain” ever since the beginning of time. 
And all his arguments, all his ideas, all his 
theories seemed new and forceful to the 
unsophisticated girl who, while yet she could 
not believe this new gospel with the soul and 
spirit portion of her organism, yet yielded her 
mentality to the cold philosophy which never- 
theless repelled her so unpleasantly. 

And so it came to pass that one day Mrs. 
Stonehenge, coming upon them as they sat 
together in the rustic arbor Arthur had made 
for their private use by bending down the 
bough of an immense tree and nailing a 
roughly constructed plank seat underneath it, 
found Dorothy gazing out at the sunset with a 
pale face, and solemn eyes filled with a 
strange, new sadness. 

Instinctively she realized that something 
had happened, and sitting down by the girl, 
she asked gently, “What is the matter, my 
dear?” 

Dorothy made no attempt at explanation or 
apology; she simply remarked, “ I’m not a 
Christian now, auntie,” and turned her gaze 
back to the sky. 


182 


THK STORY OF A DREAM 


“Oh, my dear!” exclaimed the older woman 
sadly, “how sorry I am I For once I can’t 
rejoice in your victory. Arthur, I think that 
you have done very wrong in spoiling this 
child’s faith. Sometime she’ll be very sorry 
that she listened to you.” 

“I think not, auntie,” was the triumphant 
answer, “I can only rejoice that my dear lit- 
tle girl has come out of the shadow of super- 
stition into the full light of truth.” 

“But atheism is not truth, Arthur,” an- 
swered Mrs. Stonehenge. “ It’s a cold, chilly, 
awful mistake, and it’s so utterly hopeless 
and joyless besides.” 

Dorothy said nothing, only continued to 
look far away with the expression of one who 
sees dim, sad things in the distance, and she 
turned to her. 

“You don’t seem to feel very glad about it, 
girlie,” she said, and the child answered, “I 
don’t feel glad at all, auntie; I'm veiy sorry. 
But Arthur says that Christianity is out of 
date nowadays.” 

“It isn’t, child, it isn’t,” ejaculated Mrs. 
Stonehenge. “ Believe me, it’s the truth which 
the world hungers for and rejects,” but the 
girl answered nothing, and after a little she 
passed on. 


A DREAM OF THE BREAKING OF THE FAITH 1 83 

A new, indefinable expression of sadness 
came to Dorothy that day, and it lingered 
always after; she had lifted the curtain of 
cold doubt which surrounds the world, and 
peered into the gray, colorless interior. What 
wonder that some of the icy mist wrapped 
her henceforth ? What wonder that the sad 
sights of humanity depressed her, uncheered 
as they were by the hope of a better time 
coming? What wonder that, having bartered 
the sweetest hope of humanity for a cold ab- 
straction, she found that not even the force of 
a mighty love could give her back her old 
gladness in all its fullness of perfect measure? 

^ And seeing this, Arthur was robbed of the 
perfect joy he had looked to experience in 
this conquest over Dorothy’s faith, and the 
warning words of Mrs. Stonehenge recurred 
to him again and again. 

“She’ll be very sorry sometime, she’ll be 
very sorry sometime,” rang in his brain day 
after day, and troubled him a little. Would 
little Dorothy indeed be sorry sometime that 
she had listened to him? “She shall not,” he 
told himself, “I will make her as firm as I 
am,” and to this end he lost no opportunity of 
making her old religion ridiculous in her 
sight. 


184 thk story of a dream 

With this idea he one day, hearing of a 
Methodist camp meeting a few miles distant, 
and knowing how grotesque were their pro- 
ceedings as a rule, resolved to take her to see 
it. So he suggested a drive far out in the 
country for that especial day, not mentioning 
the camp meeting, and Dorothy willingly ac- 
quiesced. But he little thought of how his 
weakness and the need of mankind for some- 
thing higher than itself to call upon in times 
of need was to be shown him, or he would 
never have started out upon that eventful 
morning. 

Now this dream made me very sad at niglft, 
was bitter as gall to my suul, 3 ^et in the morn- 
ing I remembered it not, neither did I under- 
stand that the youth who had broken down 
the faith 1 had labored so hard to build was 
but repaying me for the sharper pang I had 
given him in ages agone, although I wondered 
what I had dreamed that my cheeks were wet 
with tears, and my heart aching when I 
awoke. 

But that same night, as it drew near to the 
dawn, I dreamed another dream, a dream of 
Assyria and the fair, sweet maiden I had 


A DREAM OF THE BREAKING OF THE FAITH 185 

once loved, before her fair soul was wrapped 
in the personality of Dorothy Perseus, — and 
this was the dream I dreamed. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


A DREAM OF THE DEATH OF THE MAIDEN. 

The autumn was waning and the chill air 
of winter touching the air with frost when the 
maiden fell sick, and lay nigh unto death. 
Her mother watched over her, cradling her 
in her arms just as she had done when the 
maiden had been as small as the babe so 
closely clasped in her arms, and her father 
mourned sore by her side. But the maiden 
herself was calm with the stillness of those 
who have gone far down into the Dark Valley 
and discovered the gates of that higher birth 
which men call Death, and her eyes rested 
upon her babe with the tender love of a mother, 
mixed with the sadness of her who is no wife. 

“Weep not, my parents,” she said softly, 
“weep not that I shall thus escape by the help 
of the kind friend of all men. Death, from the 
consequences of my sin, and go to that higher 
tribunal where men are not. Surely it seems 
186 


A dream of the death op the maiden 187 

to me that there I shall not be harshly judged 
for my fault ; I am so weary, and my be- 
loved has gone from my sight, so that I have 
not the joy of his presence now, in my time 
of sorrow. Verily it is hard to die and not 
in his arms, but is it not better for my spirit 
to leave me thus surrounded by thy love, than 
to be stoned of the multitude?” 

And her voice grew faint and sank into 
silence, drowned by the sound of her mother’s 
passionate weeping. 

“Yea, verily is it better than that thou 
shouldst be stoned, oh, child of my heart,” 
she moaned, throwing dust over her head, 
“but it is hard that thou shouldst suffer while 
thy dog of a betrayer goes free. Verily it is 
he that should be stoned.” 

“Talk not of stoning,” was the shout of 
her father, as he beat his breast, “talk not of 
stoning, woman. Only keep thy spirit whole 
and thy breath within thee until thou canst 
travel, child of my soul, and we will steal 
away by night and go to a far land where 
thou shalt be called a widow, as thou art a 
widow indeed, in very truth, and in the love 
of another forget the Israelite who fled and 
left thee to mourn.” 


1 88 THE STORY OF A DREAM 

But the maiden answered, her voice fainter 
than the song of a dying bird, “I would not 
forget him, and I could not marry another, 
with the guilty secret that is in my heart, and 
the memory of the youth to whom I was’ be- 
trothed ever rising up between us. My soul 
still clings to that of the Israelite, and though 
I should wander long on the banks of the 
Shadowy River, yet will I wait until he comes 
to me, and give him this child which is his 
and mine. For I do love him.” 

Then the father of the maiden cursed the 
soul of the Israelite, and said, “Verily thou 
art no daughter of mine to be still dreaming 
of him who has brought thee to sorrow, and 
the pride of mine house to the dust. Mine 
enemies do smile derisively at me, and I am 
as naught when I sit in the gate. And I am 
no longer lawgiver because of^ thee. Yet all 
this is as nothing if only thou wilt keep thy 
spirit within thee, thou light of my eyes, and 
the child of mine old age.” 

But the maiden answered not his speech 
nor regarded the weejDing of the mother who 
bore her, and the babe at her breast wept 
aloud and she hushed it not. 

“My child is dead,” moaned the mother, 


A DREAM OF THE DEATH OF THE MAIDEN 1 89 

who had thought this best but a little space 
before, “my child is dead and I shall never 
see her sweet smile more.” 

“Veiily we have not seen it since the Is- 
raelite fled,” the father of the maiden made 
answer, “for the light of her eyes went with 
him. If she would have taken heart we 
might have left the country privily and 
pitched our tents far away, but she mourned 
ever and would not be comforted.” 

And he bowed his gray head and wept. 

Now the mother of the maiden was sore 
distressed and the crying of the babe troubled 
her, and with a bitter wail she lifted the child 
to her bosom and went on with her mourning. 

“Oh, my sweet flower,” was the voice of 
her desolation, “my mandrake, my blossom- 
ing vine, and shall I never see thy bright eyes 
open again, and shall I never more hear thy 
dear voice ringing out in the songs of our na- 
tion ? I am indeed desolate, and the light of 
my eyes has fled. Open thou thy sweet eyes 
once more, my wounded dove; speak to thy 
mother yet another word before thou art gone 
forever.” 

And, kneeling by the couch of the maiden, 
she wept bitterly and would not cease to cry, 


1 90 THE STORY OF A DREAM 

“Open thy sweet eyes, thou dear child of thy 
father.” 

And it came to pass that as she cried the 
heavy lids of the maiden’s eyes were slowly 
raised, and the wondrous eyes, filled with the 
light of a dawning heaven, looked at her once 
more, and the maiden said, “Weep not, oh, 
thou mother of my love. Verily my soul has 
traveled far, and was but hindered b}' thy 
mourning. I care not for that the Israelite 
did leave me desolate now ; I care not that 
thou didst stay me from following him; I 
care not that I must die in this, mine early 
youth, for I have beheld strange things, and 
I know that God is good. I know also that 
I shall meet my love some time to come, and 
that his love shall be tome like the flowing of 
water toward the sea; and my soul is at 
peace.” 

Now the father and mother of the maiden 
knew that she spake in the trance of death, 
so they disturbed her not, but they listened to 
her words with awe, for they knew well that 
.the eyes of the dying see far into the beyond, 
and their hearts were uplifted by the sound of 
her voice. 

And the maiden spake yet again, and said: 


A DREAM OF THE DEAT!! OF THE MAIDEN I9I 

“It matters not though men shall die, they 
shall be born again; it matters not that men 
shall weep, they shall rejoice anew; it mat- 
ters not that women shall suffer in subjection, 
for the time cometh when they shall reign in 
glory. The time shall come, and I shall be 
there to see, when women shall arise as one, 
and claim that which is theirs of God and 
man, and shall receive it, and I shall be re- 
warded then for mine agony now. But oh, 
my beloved,” and her voice was bitter with 
pain, “oh, my beloved, but thou must suffer 
in that time, and I must bring thee to thy 
sorrow. Yet in still farther time we shall 
again be glad, and in that day thou wilt not 
leave me to bear my sorrow and shame alone. 
Ko}' the day of the Woman is coming And 
she finished with a shout like that of a war- 
rior glad with triumph. 

Now the maiden’s eyes were closed and 
her voice silent once more, and her father 
and mother did think her soul had left her, but 
yet again she spake, and said, “Give me my 
child.” And when the child was laid in her 
arms, the mother-love in her spirit did wake 
and cry, and this was the manner of her 
speech ; 


192 THE STORY OF A DREAM 

“Oh, my baby, my darling, the soul of my 
soul!” she wailed, kissing the small, lovely 
face, which was but that of the Israelite in 
little, and sweetened with the wonder of bab}^- 
hood. “My treasure-troth of a love that is 
dead and gone, would God I could take thee 
with me; thou art so small to live without thy 
mother, and who will shelter thee from the 
scorn of men, thou that canst never know a 
father, and whose mother is going from thee?” 
and she wept sore, and bewailed much, and 
would not be comforted. 

“I will care for thy child,” said her father ; 
“it is mine because it is thine, and thou art 
mine,” and her mother also said, “He shall 
be mine also.” 

But the maiden still wept, and when she 
felt the spirit leaving her, she said with a loud 
shout, “Oh, thou God of ni}^ fathers! let me 
take my child with me,” and then in a lower 
tone, and with a smile of perfect joy, “It shall 
be even so, m}^ parents. The child shall go 
with me. God be with 3^00 till our spirits 
meet.” And with a sudden smile her spirit 
had gone, and the long, dark eyelashes which 
the Israelite had so often praised hid the glory 
of her eyes. 


A DREAM OF THE DEATH OF THE MAIDEN 1 93 

And her father and mother cried aloud for 
grief and fell upon her dead breast, weeping 
and mourning sore, and when they lifted them 
up the babe was veiy still. And when they 
looked to hear him cry, lo ! he was also dead. 
For thus had God answered the prayer of the 
maiden, and her child went down to death 
with her. 

And the mother of the maiden said as she 
made her child ready for burial, “It is well. 
Now she will not be lonely or afraid. She 
was ever afraid to go anywhere alone, and 
the way of death is dark and dreary, but now 
her child is with her she will be comforted, 
even as I was comforted when she came to 
me in my sorrow at the death of mine own 
mother. It is well,” and her spirit was calm, 
although she still mourned for this, her child, 
dead untimely. 

But the heart of the maiden’s father was 
exceeding sad and bitter against the Israelite, 
and he prayed to the God he worshiped after 
this fashion : 

“Oh, thou God whom I have trusted in, do 
thou avenge this child of thine who was also 
mine; let not the Israelite go unpunished. 
Be thou his enemy forever, for the sake of 
this cruel wrong which he has done.” 


194 


THE STORY OF A DREAIM 


And when he had prayed thus, his heart was 
less heavy. But he knew not if the prayer was 
answered, for Jehovah does not speak aloud 
to his children, and they do not hear when 
his voice is gentle. 

And they buried the maiden and her child 
in one grave in the valley where she had so 
often walked with the Israelite, and the sun 
and moon shone sweetly and the rains fell 
softly upon it, and the winds blew gently 
over it, even as though she had been buried 
with the clean of name in the burying-ground 
of her people. For the Great Mother of the 
World has no jealousy, and her children are as 
dear to her erring as perfect, and God knows 
no difference in his treatment of the just and 
unjust. It is only men who dare to judge 
each other. 

And the spirit of the youth to whom the 
maiden was betrothed, who was buried with 
his fathers, was as near to hers as though they 
were laid side by side, for there are no distinc- 
tions of space in the Kingdom of Death. And 
they both slept perfectly, dreamlessly, rest- 
fully, being tired with the long da}^ of life. 

And the parents of the maiden sent tidings 
to the Israelite of all that had come to pass. 


A DREAM OF THE DEATH OF THE MAIDEN 1 95 

Now this dream grieved me greatly, and 
almost I knew why, although my intellect did 
not firmly grasp the fact that as I had killed 
the youth directly and the maiden indirectly, 
so the}^ now in this dream of present life, 
would deal me my deathblow. But I grieved 
bitterly for the sorrow of the maiden, and the 
thought of her added to the many troubles 
which beset me so thickly that last, fateful 
summer; yet my dreams of Dorothy were far 
more bitter. 

And this is one which came to me some 
nights later. 


CHAPTER XV. 


A DREAM OF AN OVER-FILLED DAY. 

The day on which Dorothy and her lover 
were to visit the camp meeting came on apace, 
and with it, or rather on the day before it, 
came a telegram which summoned Arthur 
back to the city. He was very loath to leave 
Dorothy, more unwilling still to give up his 
cherished idea of remaining away from Chi- 
cago until a day or so before the wedding, 
but the case offered to him was so important 
and promised so much advantage, that, with 
the new thought of another’s future good 
mixed with his own, he felt that he must re- 
turn and take it up at once. 

So, with a sad foreboding, born of regret, 
he told Dorothy that he must say good-bye 
for a time, and was saddened yet gratified by 
the tears which sprang so quickly to her love- 
ly eyes, and the evident sorrow she felt at the 
thought of this, their first parting. 


A DREAM OF AN OVER-FILLED DAY 1 97 

‘‘Never mind, darling,” he told her lov- 
ingly, “we will go off to-morrow for a long 
drive all to ourselves, and we won't return 
until after dark,” but he said nothing of the 
camp meeting; he did not wish to argue on 
the very last day of their happy seclusion, 
and he felt sure that she would not wish to 
attend this form of country dissipation. So 
he was. silent as to this part of his scheme, 
and enjoyed her gladness in the prospect to \ 
the full. 

As it was the last day, (why does such an 
echo of sadness linger about every sentence 
which contains those little words, “the last,” 
in its embrace?) they determined to make 
it a long one, so after a very early breakfast 
they started off, assuring the older people that 
they should not return before moonlight, and 
they held to this determination in spite of no 
little opposition. 

“What do the proprieties matter?” Arthur 
asked impatiently, when his mother demurred 
a little at his proposal of this plan. “It is our 
last day and we want to enjoy it by ourselves. 

I shall not see Dorothy again until Christmas, 
3mu know,” and with an indulgent smile Mrs. 
Prescott had yielded the point, consoling her 


198 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


wounded sense of conventionality by reflect- 
ing that no one would know of the odd pro- 
ceeding, and that after all the}^ were engaged. 

So, while the morning was still dewy, they 
drove away, along the fresh roads leading 
through green woods, and fields sweet with 
the scent of wild-flowers and growing grass. 
The sun rose slowly over the hill in the 
distance, and each tin}’ leaf and every blade 
of grass seemed to stand out in full relief 
against its perfect light, which shone as it 
only does while yet the day is young and 
Nature un jaded with the work to be done 
before sunset. A little bird, hidden deep 
down in the golden-rod, suddenly burst dnlo 
song, and its joyous carol furnished the fin- 
ishing touch which made the scene perfect. 
The hearts of the lovers were almost too full 
for words of that sweet joy which only nature 
and love can give.- They were silent from 
sheer happiness. 

Once they stopped to eat some ears of late, 
sweet, tender corn, and Dorothy remarked 
that she had lately read that baths of dew 
were wonderfully beautifying to the complex- 
ion, and that it would be an easy matter to 
take one by collecting the little pools which 


A DREAM OF AN OVER- FILLED DAY I99 

lay shimmering and reflecting the sunshine 
of the rustling sheaves around them. 

“Shall I try wetting my face in it?” she 
asked coquettishly, as she smilingly sunk her 
teeth into the soft, milky corn and looked at 
the sky through her long lashes. He did not 
answer, and she turned to see what had taken 
his attention from herself; he was gazing at 
her with an expression of perfect rapture. At 
times. her sweet young beauty fairly enchanted 
him, and now he was completely fascinated 
by her charms, enhanced as they were by 
the added glory of perfect unconsciousness of 
them. And truly she was fair to see. 

The early sunbeams shone on her curly un- 
covered head, lighting some of the rippling ' 
waves to bright, shimmering gold, throwing 
others into a soft, dusky shadow and making 
the tender brown skin transparently clear, 
while her cheeks were like wild roses, and 
her eyes bright as stars. Her simple ging- 
ham gown was gathered at the throat and 
waist, and a dainty frill of creamy lace lay 
against the dimpled hollows of her “kissing 
place,” as an old beau was once wont to call 
the place where a woman’s neck joins com- 
pany with her body. Her wide-brimmed hat 


200 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


swung from her slender, rounded arm, and 
the hands holding the corn were white and 
dainty, with soft, rosy palms like a baby’s, 
and nails as faintly pink and polished as a 
seashell. 

“What are you thinking of?” she asked 
with pretty imperiousness. “Didn’t you hear 
me speak to you?” 

“I v\'as thinking how sweet you are,” he 
answered, as he tenderly kissed her and laid 
his hand on the hair which he was fond of 
declaring was “the prettiest thing in the 
world.” “You are entirel}^ too good and 
lovely for me.” 

Oh, wondrous power of love! For nearly 
thirty years the world in general had vainly 
endeavored to make this self-confident young 
man believe that people better in all ways 
than himself actually existed, and now a little 
bit of dainty girlhood had laid his pride in 
the dust. Verily there is a law of compen- 
sations. 

“You are the silliest bo}- I ever knew; you 
make me despise you,” she said, with a loving 
look which belied her words. “Now you’ve 
made me waste that ear of corn.” 

“I’ll get you some more, darling,” he an- 


A DREA-M OF AN OVER-FILLED DAY 201 


svvered; “you shall have everything you want 
while I live.” 

“Well, I want to go on now,” she pouted, 
with a sudden change of manner, and he took 
her in his arms to lift her into the wagon 
again. As he got his lovely burden breast- 
high, he looked in her face, and the sweet 
helplessness of her expression enchanted him. 
A sudden sense of his power and the complete- 
ness of his sway over her swept through him, 
and he realized how entirely she had yielded 
her will and nature to his. (Ah, Dorothy, be- 
ware! It is not wise to take a master, how- 
ever good and kind he be; it is not wise to 
voluntarily enter slavery, even though the 
chains are gilded with beauty and padded with 
love. Freedom is sweet, and there comes a 
time in every life when the heart cries out for 
its liberty as a lost child cries for home. ) 

As the young man looked down into the 
loving eyes raised so confidently to his, a 
swift expression of fear stole into them and 
the slender form in his embrace shivered as 
though with a sudden chill. 

“Put me down,” she gasped in a very hor- 
ror of shuddering fear, “ let me go, let me go !” 
but he held her fast, and resting his foot on 


202 


THE STORY OE A DREAM 


the wheel of the wagon and his elbows on 
his knee, smiled down ^t her in the lovingly 
superior manner common to lovers and hus- 
bands who know that they have conquered 
the personalit}^ confided to their care. 

Now she began to struggle in his arms, 
and letting go her self-control entirely she 
writhed wildly and begged him to set her 
down. But with the innate, unconscious 
cruelty of superior strength, he paid no heed 
to her beseechings, and not comprehending 
how she suffered from the sudden panic of 
her insurgent womanhood, he only clasped 
her the tighter, until, with a peculiar gasping 
cry, she ceased to struggle and lay quite 
still. 

It all happened so suddenly, the whole 
scene taking but a moment, that almost be- 
fore he realized that he had conquered, she 
had fainted, and the victory was wrested from 
him. 

With a swift pang of remorse, he laid her 
on the green grass which bordered the dull 
yellow road, and knelt by her side. The 
branching tree boughs overhead threw fan- 
tastic shadows on the still, white face as the 
faint, warm wind-breath stirred them, and 


A DREAM OF AN OVER-FILLED DAY 20 ^ 

little glancing sunbeams (“fairies” Dorothy 
loved to call them) flickered over the shady 
pink of her gown, hid in the hollows of her 
throat and threw into strong relief the small 
motionless hands. 

She lay unconscious so long that the now re- 
pentant lover was attacked with a horrible 
qualm of fear that he might have caused her 
death, and he desperately glanced around for 
.some means of reviving her. He could hear 
the ripple of a creek somewhere near in the dar- 
ker shades of the wood beyond the corn, but 
he dared not leave her to search for it, and 
he wildly thought of bathing her forehead 
with the lemonade which filled the stone jug 
in the back of the wagon. Before he had timj 
to try this experiment, she opened her eyes 
with a faint sigh and moved slightly. 

Instinctively he drew back in order that she 
might not see him at first, but he need not 
have feared, for the long curling lashes sank 
as suddenly as they had been lifted, and again 
she lay still for so long that his heart beat 
fearfully. Hastily he bent over her,thinking 
to chafe the tiny, helpless hands, which seemed 
to regard him with a mute reproach in every 
line of their dainty contour, and as he did so 
she opened her eyes once more. 


204 STORY OF A DREAM 

The pale, faint color, just creeping back to her 
cheeks and lips, receded again as she saw his 
face so near her own, and with a weak, swift 
movement she recoiled from him, and, cover- 
ing her face with her hands, began to cry in 
a quiet, yet bitter fashion which made him, if 
possible, more repentant than he had been 
before. 

Very tenderly he tried to soothe her, to in- 
duce her to look at him, to still the tempest 
of weeping which shook her from head to 
foot, but all to no purpose. Her self-con- 
sciousness, her womanhood, the very center 
of her being, had received a severe shock, 
and the tide of insulted feeling had swelled 
quite beyond her control. Many a woman, 
like a horse, enjoys being dominated so long 
as she is treated with the tender respect and 
deference she longs for, aye, needs, but once 
her will is interfered with, be it ever so slightly, 
the entire body of her femininity is up in arms 
against the invader of her sacred temple. 

To Dorothy this unexpected action on the 
part of the man who stood to her foolish soul 
in the place of God, was like the falling of a 
cherished idol, the breaking of a treasured 
possession, and like the true woman she was, 


A DREAM OF AN OVER-FILLED DAY 205 

she felt that the world itself could not atone 
for this lack of chivalry in the man who had 
won, and hitherto held her heart. She was 
afflicted to desolation, and she cried so long 
and unrestrainedly that Arthur was thorough- 
ly alarmed, and fairly implored her to forgive 
him and to try to become calm. But by this 
time she had wept herself hysterical and found 
it impossible to control herself, and not until 
she was completely exhausted did she cease 
her bitter sobbing and sink into a state of pas- 
sive sorrow. 

Then, and not till then, could she endure 
to look at him, and for some time longer the 
mere touch of his hand sufficed to make her 
shiver and to bring back the deadly pallor 
which had so frightened the shamefaced young 
man, who waited with a patience which as- 
tonished himself for her to master her sud- 
denly assailed emotions and take up the burden 
of every-day life again. 

At last, just as repentance was beginning 
to give place to a not entirely unnatural an- 
noyance (for after all, his crime had been but 
venial, he thought), she looked at him with 
sweet eyes which had only love in their 
shining depths and did not repulse the hand 
he half timidly laid on hers. 


2o6 the story of a dream 

“Have 3"ou forgiven me, darling?” he asked 
tenderly, with a quiver of suppressed feeling 
in his voice, all his remorse coming back in 
full force at this, the first sign of her yielding, 
sacrificing her anger to her love for him. 
“Will you let me lift you into the wagon now, 
so that we can go on again?” and she hesi- 
tatingly smiled assent although the trembling 
lips were silent. She had a strong desire to 
insist upon returning to the farm and the pro- 
tecting care of the reasonably affectionate 
people there, instead of trusting herself to him 
again, but her pride instantly suggested that 
if she returned some explanation would be 
necessary, and what could she say? 

The true reason for the shadow which had 
dimmed her hitherto cloudless sunshine she 
felt that she could not give even to tender 
Mrs. Prescott; the thought of one of those 
creations known to polite society as “fibs,” 
“prevarications,” or “white lies,” never oc- 
curred to her truthful soul, so she took the 
only alternative open to her and consented to 
resume that interrupted journey. But when 
Arthur would have taken her into his arms 
again she would by no means permit him to 
do so, and assayed to climb up into the high 


A DREAM OF AN OVER-FILLED DAY 207 

seat unaided. But she was weak with the phys- 
ical and mental tumult, and as she wavered 
on the step she seemed so totally unable to 
go farther that he sprang upon the wheel and 
lifted her to the body of the wagon. 

She shivered as his hands touched hers, and 
looked at him with an expression similar to 
that in the eyes of a timid animal which fears 
its owner, and that look was a severe punish- 
ment to the man who had so frightened her. 
The cruelty of his conduct was more appar- 
ent to him than it had befen before, and he 
experienced one of those brief flashes of self- 
knowledge which are so bitterly keen and 
true and unflattering. 

In these moments of spiritual insight we 
see ourselves, not ‘‘as others see us,” but in 
the far more unkindl}^ light of our own shamed 
and repentant soul-judgment, and in the per- 
fect, merciless glare of this ps3^chical search- 
light, which floods every nook and cranny 
of our being, and shows forth all the hidden, 
often unsuspected motives which prompt the 
actions which we fondly^ imagine to spring 
from purely accidental causes, we learn how, 
underneath the personality we know asagen- 
etal thing, there lies another as antipodal as 


2o8 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


the two poles of a hemisphere. Happy, or 
rather unhappy, but fortunate, is the soul 
which thus looks its inner self in the face most 
frequently, for no man can do this and re- 
main conceited, egotistical or vain; yet — the 
nature which in this way uncovers the shame 
of its existence, and lays bare too frequently 
the blots which mar its natural purity, may 
perchance suffer keenly from undue exposure 
to the biting blasts of its own withering crit- 
icism. 

But the humiliation of Arthur Brampton 
was not yet complete, for ere he could release 
his unwilling burden she had been again over- 
powered by the memory of the horror which 
had oppressed her so short a time before, and 
— fainted again. This time unconsciousness 
did not come quite so quickly, and the poor 
girl had plenty of time in which to suffer the 
horrible dizziness and nausea which all who 
have fainted know so well, and dread so 
much. After the awful shudder which warned 
her that her nervous system had not entirely 
recovered from the shock it had undergone, 
she was conscious of a horrible sickness, fol- 
lowed by a rhythmical pounding in her tem- 
ples; then her heart rose up into her throat. 


A DREAM OF AN OVER-FILLED DAY 2O9 

her tongue sank down to meet it, something 
in the back of her head gave way suddenly, 
and with a hasty fear that she was dying she 
relapsed into unconsciousness again. 

Once more Arthur’s heart failed him, but 
this time he made no effort to move her into 
a recumbent position or in an}^ way hasten 
her awakening. He simply drew the drooping 
head to his shoulder, and supporting her with 
his arm, gazed at her with a sad sense of hav- 
ing lost something which he had loved and 
cherished. He was inclined to smile contemp- 
tuously at his own weakness, to assure him- 
self that this feeling was but the reflex action 
of an excited mind, but if he had only known 
it he had indeed lost something which he 
could never entirely regain in its pristine per- 
fection of freshness, — the pure trust and con- 
fidence cf a soul which would never again 
rejoice in such absolute faith in human nature, 
— the unfaltering faith of a girl’s innocent 
heart. 

After Dorothy opened her eyes again, she 
lay quite still with her head against his arm 
and her warm, fluttering breath coming and 
going on his neck and face, and though she 
knew that his arm was around her, she made 


210 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


no attempt to withdraw from his embrace; 
she did not stop to analyze or formulate her 
train of thought, but she instinctively realized 
that it was too late to struggle against the 
will of the man to whom she had given her all 
so easily and gladly, and like the wise cap- 
tive, who, knowing that escape is impossible 
and all hope of freedom vain, makes the best 
of imprisonment and learns to love his jailer, 
she, in that simple act of allowing herself to 
remain passively in the embrace of his sup- 
porting arm, renounced the liberty she had 
so gloried in and— became a slave. Love is 
but a jailer, albeit a gracious one as far as 
womankind is concerned, yet every new pris- 
oner he makes rejoices in being conquered, 
and many yield up the most precious attribute 
a soul can own, willingly, aye, gladly, and 
without striking a single blow in self-defense. 
It is said that caged wild-birds grow to love 
their prison, and many a petted canaiw would 
refuse its liberty if this was offered it, and 
upon being forced out into the wide, sweet 
world, would find it large and dreary, and 
pine for the small, safe cage where food 
abounded without the troublesome necessity 
of seeking it, and where life had a sweet 
monotony. 


A PREAM OF AN OVER-FILLED DAY 21 I 


The heart of the vanquished maiden, sub- 
jugated to the desire of her lover as com- 
pletely as though with the more primitive club- 
and-carry-off method of countries which have 
not yet reached a high state of civilization, 
gave a few wild, longing throbs after the lost 
joy so recklessly thrown away, so carelessly 
bartered for the new, sweet grandeur of that 
which all women at heart, if not in speech, 
consider as the best which the world holds, 
then the tumultuously pulsating thing had 
learned the first lesson in the long course 
which is necessary to produce that rarity, a 
model wife, — utter, loving submission, — and 
was still. With a confiding smile, Dorothy 
laid down the arms of her womanly independ- 
ence, trampled on it, and deliberately chose 
love before anything and everything else ; de- 
liberately, yet helplessly, since to a tender 
nature, once intoxicated with the wine of the 
gods, the stimulant is absolutely necessary 
for life, of any quality worth calling by that 
name at all. And both the participants in this 
struggle understood the unspoken meaning, 
the deep significance of this act of self-abne- 
gation, and as one heart yielded the reins 
the other seized them, and the conquered one 
took up the parable of speech. 


212 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


“Pm better now,” she whispered, pressing 
her cheek against his rough coat-sleeve as 
though seeking to mortify the tender flesh, 
and he looked radiantly down at her, pleased 
with the result of his hazardous, thoughtless 
experiment, and unselfishly glad to see her 
looking more natural and free from the fear- 
ful, timid expression which had made him so 
penitent. 

The remorse was all gone now, however, 
banished by the first signs of a kindred feel- 
ing in her mind, and only gladness remained, 
mixed with a little of the joy of theT victor 
and the pleasure of success. 

“Are you more sensible, too?” he asked, 
with a tender smile which disarmed her faint 
rising of anger at having all the blame of the 
happening placed upon her, who had also 
borne all the pain and suffering. “Has my 
little girl got over her foolishness now?” 

She hesitated an instant, then, tacitly ac- 
cepting the reproach, she answered with a 
little smile, “Yes, dear, I’m — I’m sorry I was 
so — cross,” (oh, foolish Dorothy, to so sell 
your birthright for a loving word !) “won’t 
you,” with the sweetest smile in the world, 
“forgive me?” 


A DREAM OF AN OVER-FILLED DAY 213 

“That’s my brave darling,” he answered, 
delighted with her pretty timidity, “to own 
up when she was in the wrong.” (Oh, sophistry 
of vanity! How was she wrong?) “Of course 
I’ll forgive you; only don’t scare me so again. 
And by the way, dear, what made you faint?” 

She did not answer at first, but he looked 
at her with the magnetic, imperious eyes 
which dominated her completely, and after a 
momentary struggle she whispered, “I was 
frightened, I think; you wouldn’t let me go, 
and it seemed, somehow, as if 1 should never 
be able to get away from you again.” 

“Do you want to get away from me?” he 
interrupted, with a quiver of hurt feeling in 
his voice. “I thought you loved me as I do 
you, and wanted to be with me all your life.” 

“So I do,” she made haste to answer, “I 
love you better than everything in all the 
world, and if you left me I should die, for I 
could not live without you.” 

“My darling, my sweetheart, my dearest,” 
he murmured passionately, “I could not live 
without you either,” and somehow the sun- 
shine grew brighter after this, and the un- 
pleasantness of the lately-finished scene faded 
away. To the day of her death Dorothy could 


214 STORY OF A DREAM 

not think of it without a shudder, but before 
an hour had passed she w’as fully convinced 
that she herself, and she only, was to blame 
for the trouble, and she tried hard to make 
amends for her supposed misconduct. 

And in her penitence she was so sweet that 
Arthur was enchanted, and told himself that 
he loved her all the more for her little display 
of temper, but in reality the cause of his sat- 
isfaction lay deeper than he supposed. 

Man instinctively loves to feel himself mas- 
ter of a being of the opposite sex, this charac- 
teristic being a relic of primitive times, no 
doubt; and the subjugation of a woman’s soul, 
the conquering of her heart, and the submis- 
sion of her mind to his own, is a sw'eet pleas- 
ure, a dear delight, all the more enjoyable if 
the subject resists a little at first, and has to 
be shown the error of her ways and brought 
to see matters in their true light. 

So the young man was in the happiest. of 
moods when, after a little more loving con- 
versation, the old horse, which had taken this 
long rest quite philosophicall}^ and calmly 
eaten all the grass within reach, was gently 
started on again, and the remainder of the 
trip was so delightful that the sad feeling of 


A DREAM OF AN OVER-FILLED DAY 215 

defeat which this incident left in the mind of 
the girl was soon obliterated and washed out 
by the new tide of happiness. 

Again she thrilled, soul and body, with de- 
light in the sparkling dewdrops which still 
lingered on the under sides of the leaves and 
grasses ; again she caroled a joyous response to 
the birds, who sang as galyy as if they, too, had 
just made up a lover’s quarrel; again she 
laughed in the sunshine, which was a trifle too 
warm for comfort now. She experienced one 
of those rare periods of happiness which only 
come at the farther edge of a sorrow, and her 
whole being responded to the gladness within 
her., as a violin answers to the will of a mas- 
ter-hand. “Sweet are the joys of renuncia- 
tion,” sings an old poet, and a drop of water 
which is lost in the ocean is doubtless glad 
of the complete rest and self-annihilation it 
finds therein. 

Higher and higher rose the sun as they 
journeyed on, and the day grew so hot that 
the shade of the cool woods seemed doubly 
grateful. Dorothy was a little pale, between 
the heat and the tide of emotion which had 
submerged her, when they neared the camp- 
meeting ground,. and she readily acquiesced 


2i6 the story of a dream 

when Arthur, innocently remarking that a 
revival was evidently in progress, suggested 
that they go in and see whether such exer- 
cises were really as amusing to witness as they 
were to hear about. 

So they drove in through the open gates, 
fastened the horse in one of the long sheds 
arranged for the purpose, and made their wa}^ 
to the big tent from whence the noise pro- 
ceeded. The scene which met their eyes 
would have been a ver^Tamiliar one to many 
persons, but to Dorothy, used as she was to 
the most decorous of worship, it seemed ex- 
ceedingly strange, and not a little irreverent. 

At the end of the tent opposite the door, sat 
a row of men whom she afterwards learned 
were the “local preachers” from the whole 
country-side, and their faces were wreathed 
in smiles as they watched the ever-increasing 
crowds around the “mourners’ bench,” and 
listened to the shouts of a woman who jumped 
wildly about and up and down in front of them. 

“You men all look so beeyootiful ter me,” 
she screamed, “I jist loves yer when yer tells 
me God loves ME” i^with a terrific accent on 
the personal pronouns), “an’ I’se a-goin’ ter 
serve him all my days,” ending with a violent 


A DREAM OF AN OVER-FILLED DAY 217 

crescendo. Then she dropped to the floor 
unconscious, while the other women crowded 
around her, and a tall, skinny man rose to 
his feet. 

“I’m a-goin’ ter serve the Lord, too,” he 
growled forth in a deep bass voice, “but it 
tuck me a mighty long time ter make up my 
mind ter follow him. I jist skinted erlong 
day arter day, an’ ’lowed thet sometime I’d 
git saved, but I never jined ther church till 
ther Lord tuck all my stock with ther bloatin’. 
Thet jist tuck ther pride clean outen me, an’ 
I gin ter onct an’ made my perfessin’. An’ 
now I’m in ther bright an’ shinin’ light, an’ 
I’ve found a friend in Jesus.” 

“I’ve found a friend, and such a friend! 

I’ve found a friend in Jesus.” 

sang the whole congregation, taking up the 
refrain of a popular h3’mn, like the chorus of 
a comic opera, and while all agreed upon the 
tune, each person sang in a different key and 
with the time and pitch which seemed most 
pleasing to his or her individual taste. The 
effect thus produced was as unique as it was 
ridiculous, and Dorothy, covering her face 
with her handkerchief, laughed hysterically, 


2i8 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


until, from very exhaustion, she was compelled 
to sink into quietness again. Some of the wom- 
en looked in her direction, evidently think- 
ing that she was overcome by a very different 
emotion, and one or two made as though to 
speak to her, but the steadiness of Arthur’s 
gaze was disconcerting to the sh}", diffident 
women, and they returned to their enjo^^ment 
of the singing again. Having wailed and 
shouted and moaned through the song already 
started, some one else began ‘‘What a friend 
we have in Jesus!” and this, too, was finished 
to the very last line, with great zest and 
spirit. Another would have been speedily 
begun, but a woman in the middle of the tent 
got upon her feet, in the aisle, and swaying 
her body from side to side, began, in a kind 
of weird chant, with a curious rising inflec- 
tion on every third or fourth syllable, “I’ve 
found a friend too^ an’ he come ter me in the, 
queerest way, I wuz a-bakin’ biskits fer 
an’ a-thinkin’ on ther things which 
berlong ter ther Lord^ an’ I opened ther 
oven door sudden like. An’ ther he set^ ther 
blessed Savior^ on top uv er biskit. An’ I 
fell on my knees fi' ay ed., an’ here I am, 

ter praise his blessed ferever;;zi?r^.” 


. A DREAM OF AN OVER-FILLED DAY 2 Ip 

“Blessed be the name, blessed be the name, 

Blessed be the name of the Lord,” 

took up the chorus, and this, too, was repeated 
again and again. 

Then a young boy left the grinning, gaping, 
joking crowd on the last seat, and pranced 
down the aisle, with his naturally ruddy face 
white and set, and his eyes gleaming wildly. 
Facing the audience, he tried to speak, but 
burst into tears instead and was in an instant 
the center of a crowd of people, all singing, 
praying and shouting, and presently it was an 
nounced that “ another precious soul had been 
saved from the devil and given to the Lord.” 
A storm of “ Hallelujahs” followed, and in the 
excitement which ensued the converts were 
numerous. 

The last to march up to the “penitent row” 
w'as a man who was evidently much respected 
by every one present, and an admiring hush 
greeted him as he bowed to the preachers and 
began to speak. 

“I’m free ter confess,” he said in a voice 
which was husky with suppressed emotion, 
“thet I’m a gret sinner, an’ I’m bound ter 
say, too, thet it takes more currage ter say so 
then it did ter face ther cannons et Gettys- 
burg. But it’s true, brethren, it’s moughty 


220 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


true, an’ it’s time I owned up ter it, I’m a gret 
sinner. I jined ther church years ago, an’ 
I’ve never missed a gatherin’ uv ther Lord’s 
people since, an’ I’ve tooken moughty good 
care ter bring my chillun up in ther nurtur- 
an’-’dmonition uv ther Lord. Why, even 
jist this yere mornin’ I licked thet boy uv 
mine right smart because he wanted ter go 
fishin’ ’slid uv cornin’ ter ther Mercy-seat 
wuth his par an’ mar. But since I’ve set here 
ter-day, an’ listened to ther testimonies uv ther 
brethren an’ sistern, it’s been powerful borne 
in upon my soul thet wuth all my prayin’ an’ 
exhortin’ I’ve never give enough fer ther 
spread uv ther cospel among the poor be- 
nighted heathen. I never wuz one ter pro- 
crasternate when onct my duty wuz clear ter 
me, an’ I’m a-goin’ hum right now ter sell a 
steer, an’ I’m a-comin’ back ter-night wuth 
ther money.” 

With an effort at the dignity which he felt 
appropriate to the occasion, he strode down 
the aisle and from the tent, and before the 
excitement caused by his speech had died 
away a negro woman arose and pushed her 
wa}^ to the front. She was known to most of 
the people as a regular backslider” who was 


A DREAM OF AN OVER-FILEED DAY 221 


converted every year, only to fall from grace 
just as regularly, but she always gave “good 
testimony,” and was considered an acquisi- 
tion to any meeting. 

“ Bless the Lawd, honey,” she commenced, 
addressing the preacher nearest her end of 
the line, “I’m yere agin, an’ I’m er-goin’ ter 
stay this time. Oh, you younguns needenter 
laff, you rascals (turning to the giggling, 
choking group in the rear of the tent), you 
needenter laff at poor ol’ Brack Sally, fer if 
my face is blackern yourn the Lawd made it, 
an’ them what the devil made can’t mend it 
nohow; an’ ye ain’t such a gran’ sight bettern 
I am. An’ you people (to the congrega- 
tion) needenter think I’m a-goin’ ter backslid 
ergin, cause I ain’t never no more ferever- 
an’-ever-bless-ther-Lawd-Amen. I’m a-goin’ 
ter git in ther gospel chariot fer good this 
yere time, an’ I won’t fallout ergin. I’ve 
gin up dancing, I’ve gin upswearin’, an’ I’m 
ergoin’ ter dress like a Shaker on meetin’- 
day.” 

With a dramatic gesture she tore the scarlet 
ribbon from her gaudy, blue-and-yellow 
trimmed hat, snatched off the green sash 
which encircled the place where her waist 


222 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


ought to have been, and throwing herself on 
her knees, began to wail in the manner pecu- 
liar to the African race, when wrought up 
over anything. A young girl followed her 
example, and soon the entire feminine part of 
the assembly were shedding tears, praying 
and groaning. 

In the midst of the uproar, a little, insignif- 
icant-looking man, known far and wide as a 
“powerful exhorter,” stepped to the front, 
and clearing his throat began to speak in a 
voice which seemed to proceed from his pro- 
digious shoes. “I’ve bin a wanderer all my 
life,” he drawled, “but I’m a-comin’ hum 
now, an’ brethren, we’re all goin’ ther same 
way, ther whole bilin’ uv us, — ” 

“We’re goin’ home, we’re goin’ home, 
we’re goin’ home to-morrer,” struck in a shrill 
voice from the other side of the tent, and many 
of the people joined in the refrain with all the 
strength of their lungs. The man who had 
been intending to make a long speech, an- 
noyed at the interruption, but determined not 
to be outdone, began to sing “Pull for the 
Shore” lustily, and as his immediate family 
and intimate friends all shouted heartily in 
company with him, there were soon two sep- 


A DREAM OF AN OVER-FILLED DAY 2 23 

arate choirs, each trying to drown the other. 
Directly a third faction began another strain, 
and the noise, when added to the cries of 
“ Hallelujah God help us!” “Lord save 
us!” “Oh, Jesus, comedown!” and so forth, 
from the newly-converted saints on the front 
seat, became terrific. 

Dorothy, whose excitable temperament was 
easily upset, began to cry, and but for Ar- 
thur’s prompt interposition, she would soon 
have been up in “the mourners’ row.” But 
he was determined that she should not “make 
a fool of herself” in this manner, and taking 
her, almost by main force, from the little 
crowd of eager v/omen surrounding her, he 
half led, half carried her into the outer air, 
where b}’ dint of a drink of cool water, and 
much tender talking, he succeeded in sooth- 
ing her. 

“You would soon have been as crazy as 
the rest, if I hadn’t rescued you,” he remarked 
as they sat down in the shade of a great tree, 
and to his surprise she began to cry again, 
and exclaimed: “I wish I was; they’re hap- 
pier than I am.” 

For a moment he was too hurt and indig- 
nant to speak, but as soon as he had recovered 


2 24 STORY OF A DREAM 

his temper somewhat, he recollected that she 
was undoubtedl}^ nervous and completely over- 
wrought; so, suggesting, a little coldly, that 
they had better return home, he went to fetch 
the horse. 

But to his astonishment, when' he returned 
she declared her intention of remaining to 
witness the “baptizin’” which one of the 
preachers had announced to take place in the 
afternoon, and from this determination he could 
not move her. He was not a little surprised, 
for she was in general so easy to persuade 
that he had no knowledge of the little vein of 
obstinacy which ran through her character 
and made her so provokingly persevering at 
times, and his astonishment grew as he found 
that she was immovable in her decision. 
Again his temper surged up, for he was little 
used to opposition, and she was as a rule the 
most submissive of subjects, but he managed 
to control it, and silently biting his lips to 
keep back the angry words which rose to 
them, he turned away. 

By the time he had fed the horse, she was 
ready and willing to make up, and her ad- 
vances toward this end were so sweet that he 
was soon as much in love as ever, and quite 


A DREAM OF AN OVER-FILLED DAY 2 25 

forgetful of the lecture he had intended to de- 
liver as soon as she was calm. But she was 
still anxious to see the immersion, so after all 
the dinners had been eaten (this part of the 
“meetin’ ” being turned into a regular picnic 
affair), they fell into line behind the long 
procession of “spring wagons,” buggies and 
farmers’ turn-outs of all kinds, and drove to 
the nearest creek. 

Here the preachers stood waist deep in the 
stream, and the converts waded out to them 
in a long line. As they reached the “gospel 
peddlers” as Arthur contemptuously called 
the ministers, each one laid his left hand on 
the chest of the “saved” person nearest him, 
and the other between the shoulders of the 
person to be baptized. Then, slowly lowering 
the convert into the water, he held him or 
her there while making a short prayer, and 
finally brought him to the surface again, and 
raised him to an upright position, choking, 
gasping and spluttering, but with a beatified 
face, and (doubtless) a happy heart. 

All the “full members” of the neighbor- 
hood stood in a crowd on the bank, and each 
one,“ brother or sister, ”was compelled to shake 
hands so much and so vigorously that the 


226 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


dang^' of taking cold while listening to the 
length}? prayers and thanksgivings w'hich fol- 
lowed the ceremony was greatly obviated. 

When the last subject, a slender, pretty girl 
in a clinging white frock which seemed rather 
to gain than lose purity from contact with the 
muddy water, came dripping up the steep, 
slippery bank, Dorothy sighed so deeply and 
sadly that her lover tenderly asked what 
troubled her. 

“I wish 1 was a Christian again,” she mur- 
mured, and he remarked a little crossly, 
“Well, for pity’s sake go back to your old 
bondage if you want to do so.” 

“I couldn’t now,” she answered mourn- 
fully, but he made no response, and they were 
very silent until Dorothy suddenly said that 
she was very thirsty. Arthur seized upon 
her wish for a drink with avidity, welcoming 
it as an opportunity to beguile her away from 
the camp meeting, and together they crossed 
a field of tall wheat which grew high above 
the girl’s head, and climbed the steep hill 
which lay behind the creek. On the top of 
the hill a farm-house stood, but between the 
field and the house another creek ran, and 
the only way in which to reach the other side 


A DREAM OF AN OVER-FILLED DAY 227 

was by means of a “ timber” or tree-trunk, sim- 
ply hewed down and thrown across the stream 
from either side of the high banks which lay 
nearly fifty feet above the water. 

Now both the lovers . had heard ghastly 
stories of a certain “nine-mile crick” which 
was possessed of an undercurrent so deep and 
strong that any one falling in would never 
reach the surface until the river, miles farther 
down the country, was reached, and, although 
neither thought of this now, it made Arthur 
hesitate for a few moments before deciding 
that Dorothy must not cross this particular 
creek. The timber was so far above the 
water, and she was not blessed with that won- 
der of phraseology, a “steady head;” so he 
resolved not to run any risks. She might 
faint and fall so suddenly as to overthrow 
both, or she might simply slip off and be 
drowned. 

So, bidding her stay where she was, he 
hastily started back, but something in his tone 
made her anxious to show him that she could 
cross the timber alone, and she determined to 
do so, and meet him as he returned, on the 
other side of the creek, thus proving conclu- 
sively her ability to cross unassisted. Had 


228 THE STORY OF A DREAM 

he told her to remain where she was with a 
different manner she would have done so with- 
out a thought, but his slightly dictatorial ac- 
cent had roused the spirit of opposition which 
lies at the bottom of every w’omanl}^ heart, 
and she was bound to disobey him. Many 
women like being ordered about, as long as 
the commander has the good sense to utterly 
abrogate any show of power, but let the man- 
date go forth with the least assumption of un- 
warranted authority, and they rebel instantly. 

So Dorothy’s womanhood compelled her 
to attempt the dangerous task she dreaded, 
and with sinking courage, but unwavering 
will, she walked out beyond the water’s edge. 
No sooner had she done this than she felt 
giddy, and the shining, sparkling water 
seemed to rise to meet her eyes, fixed on her 
precarious footing, and a great spasm of fear 
mad6 her shiver. But to turn was impossi- 
ble, and would have meant a certain fall, so 
she raised her gaze to the opposite bank and 
stepped out as quickly as she dared. 

She might perhaps have reached the other 
side in safety, although deathly sick and faint, 
but, just as she got to the middle of the stream , 
which was perhaps fifty feet wide, a young 


A DREAM OF AN OVER-FILLED DAY 22g 

colt, which had escaped from the pasture, 
came suddenly crashing through the corn, 
with a man in full pursuit. The startled girl 
screamed, slipped, lost her footing, and fell 
down, down, into the deep, still water. 

And as she fell a sudden recollection of the 
story of that dangerous undercurrent came to 
her, and filled her with despairing fear. She 
had never learned the exact location of the 
creek in question, but she felt sure that this 
was the one, and believing herself, in effect, 
dead alread}^ did not even struggle. 

A pang sharp as death itself shot through 
her at the thought of leaving the bright, liv- 
ing, human world around her, and going out 
into the cold Unknown, and just for a mo- 
ment she longed for the old sure ground of 
faith; then her fear and dread overcame her, 
and with a last effort she cried, as she rose 
gasping and breathless to the surface, “Oh, 
Father Bertram, Father Bertram!” — and 
fainted. Now Arthur, on his way to the 
house, had been met by the colt which had 
caused the disaster, and turned to assist the 
pursuers. As he neared the creek, he heard 
that agonized cry, and while the horse dashed 
on, and the other man after him, he rushed to 


^30 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


the creek and reached the edge just in time 
to see Dorothy sink out of sight. He, too, 
thought that this was the fatal creek, and his 
heart failed him; but with the instinct all hu- 
man beings own to call upon a power higher 
than themselves, when in need of help, he 
muttered, “ Oh, my God, my God!” as he 
plunged down the almost perpendicular bank 
and leaped into the stream. 

If he had but known it, this particular creek, 
although very deep, had no current whatever, 
but no such comforting knowledge came to 
him, as he braced himself firmly against the 
floor of the stream and looked around him, 
and when he saw her lying unconscious, with 
her frock caught in the knotted root of a tree 
which grew on the bank, and realized that 
she was not, as he had feared, beyond his aid, 
the revulsion of feeling weakened him so 
much that for a moment he could not move a 
muscle. “Thank God,” he said unthinkingly 
as he hastily released her; then lifting her 
in his arms, he struck out for the shore near- 
est the house. It was not easy to swim so 
encumbered, but he did it somehow, and ar- 
riving at the edge, he managed to clamber up 
the steep bank (just how he never knew). 


A DREAM OF AN OVER-FILLED DAY 23 1 

and laid the fainting girl on the ground. 
Then he quickly tore open the neck of her 
gown, but at sight of the bare flesh, so soft 
and white and dainty, closed it again just as 
quickly as he had undone it, feeling as if he 
had committed sacrilege. (It is a queer but 
indisputable fact, that a man who can gaze 
unabashed upon the naked shoulders and bust 
of a woman in a ball-gown or bathing suit, 
is apt to feel ashamed when he sees the merest 
speck of uncovered skin at an unconventional 
time, and in an unexpected manner.) 

Taking her np in his arms again, he started 
up the hill, gazing down as he went at the 
dear white face, with the long, curling lashes 
lying so still against the pale cheeks, and in- 
wardly cursing (for even those who will ac- 
knowledge no power for good which passes 
their understanding, tacitly own to a belief in 
an evil influence, and yield to the natural de- 
sire to anathematize whatever vexes or 
distresses them) the long, wet hair, which, 
having become loosened, would insist upon 
blowing in his face and blinding him ; yet he 
kissed the lovely locks more than once, as 
they blew against his lips, and for all his an- 
ger against their perversity, he looked ten- 
derly at them. 


232 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


But it was hard work toiling up that long 
hill, and long before the top was in sight 
Dorothy gasped, sighed, and opened her eyes. 

She had no doubt but that she was dead, 
and being possessed of very conventional 
ideas regarding the future state, she thought 
that the angels were carrying her soul to heav- 
en. She vaguely wondered that the blue sky 
above should look so natural, and she felt 
rather surprised to find that a disembodied 
soul could suffer from the sickening headache 
which invariably follows a fainting-fit, and be 
oppressed with a deadly nausea. But she was 
still ver}^ weak, and in such moments new 
teachings are apt to fade away and leave 
those of childhood to reign supreme, so no 
thought of her lately-learned skepticism came 
to her. A second later her eyes, in closing 
again, encountered those others looking down 
into them, and silently, and as apparently sud- 
denly as all nature’s great works take place, 
the gates of the only heaven mortals ever see 
swung open to her, and she knew that the man 
of her heart loved her even as she did him. 

“My darling!” he murmured, overcome 
with happiness, and stooping he kissed the 
sweet, unresisting lips, just beginning to re- 


A DREAM OF AN OVER FILLED DAY 233 

gain their pretty, natural hue, and pressed 
his cheek against hers with the loving gesture 
natural to children and animals, and which, 
lost in the process of education, is apt to come 
back at times when conventionality and ex- 
pression by word of mouth is inadequate, and 
natural instincts hold their own again. 

A great wave of color flooded her face and 
throat, then, receding with terrible sudden- 
ness, left her ghastly pale; her eyes closed 
wearily, her lips fell apart, and with a great 
sigh she drifted out once more upon the unex- 
plored sea of unconsciousness. 

A ghastly fear that she might be dead as- 
sailed him, taking the strength from his body, 
and with a smothered ejaculation of “God 
help me!” he sank to the ground, still hold- 
ing her Closely clasped to his breast. 

He was in fact nearer death than she was, 
for he was physically exhausted, mentally 
unbalanced, and oppressed by a curious feel- 
ing of humiliation at his own three-fold weak- 
ness. He was filled with an unsparing, 
unreasonable contempt for himself, and he 
bitterly wondered what Dorothy would say 
and think (she representing all the world to 
him at this period of the love-madness which 


234 STORY OF A DREAM 

flooded his soul), if she knew that in that brief 
eternity under the water, and again in this 
agony of helpless despair, he, the atheist, 
who prided himself on his freedom from all 
“ superstitious weakness, ’’had actually prayed, 
and in his gladness at finding her alive, had 
given heart-felt thanks to the Power he be- 
lied. He was tired with the strange weari- 
ness which is our tender mother’s warning 
that the stream of life has been unduly drawn 
upon, and that, in consequence, it has reached 
ebb-tide ; and feeling that since Dorothy did not 
arouse she must be dead, and that therefore 
all further effort was useless, he laid his head 
on her unconscious form and yielded to the 
drowsiness which came suddenly over him. 

A moment later the farmer, coming through 
the field, found him there, half hidden b}" the 
tall grass, and took his burden from him. 

•‘Oh, do you think she’s going to die?” he 
gasped breathlessly, roused by a new fear, as 
he gazed at the girl’s white, set face and stiff 
limbs. “What shall I do? What shall I do?” 

“Leave her to the wimmen-folks, an’ don’t 
be a fool,” was the quiet reply, and with this 
he was fliin to be content. 

He suffered no inconsiderable amount of 


A DREAM OF AN OVER-FILLED DAY 235 

sharp mental agony during the next hour. 
He was distressed about Doroth}^ and her 
long fainting fit (for, worn out with the con- 
flicting emotions of the day, topped off with 
the sudden shock of fear and dread and the 
physical suffering which a plunge into cold 
water invariably gives to nervous tempera- 
ments, the girl lay long in the embrace of un- 
consciousness, and was revived with difficulty) ; 
he was still more distressed at the remem- 
brance of her cry to the man he despised, and 
whose memory he thought he had succeeded 
in effacing from the mind of his beloved, and 
when the good-natured farmer’s wife told 
him that his rival’s name had been first upon 
the lips of her charge when, at last, she 
opened her eyes consciously, he was almost 
in despair. 

Dry clothing, however, a generous cup of 
hot rye coffee, and the knowledge that at all 
events she was still alive, did much to restore 
his natural cheerfulness, and when he was 
told that Dorothy was sufficiently recovered 
to see him for a little while, he hardly fin- 
ished greeting her as she lay, pale and shad- 
owy looking, on the stiff horse-hair lounge in 
the prim parlor of the farmhouse, before at- 
tacking her tenderly upon the subject. 


236 THE STORY OF A DREAM 

‘‘Why did you call out the name of that 
priest you know I dislike, darling?” he asked 
her, magnetizing her with his loving glance. 
“Why did you not think of me?” 

For answer she merely blushed, but her 
eyes were very wet, and when he continued, 
“If I were in danger, dear heart, you would 
be my first thought, and I cannot imagine 
why you should have thought of that other 
man rather than myself,” the tears overflowed 
and she leaned against his shoulder sobbing 
out, “Oh, what shall I do?” even as he had 
done but an hour ago. 

“What is it, sweet one?” he queried, hold- 
ing her closely to him, and frightened by 
the vehemence of her emotion. “What ails 
3mu?” 

“I can’t bear to think of Father Bertram,” 
she wept, refusing to be comforted. “When 
I was fainting just now it seemed to me that 
his face looked over your shoulder at me, 
and it was so sad and worn looking that I felt 
as though my heart would break. He was 
so good to me, you know.” 

“Oh, hang the man, an^^way !”was Arthur’s 
impatient answer, “the idea of you crying 
about him makes me furious, ”and he loosened 
the hold of his circling arm. 


A DREAM OF AN OVER-FILLED DAY 237 

She cowered down upon the cushions of 
the lounge and cried bitterly, but suddenly 
she started up, pointed over his shoulder 
wildly, and cried out, “There he is.” 

Arthur sprang to his feet, but the room was 
empty of all but the scanty furniture, and he 
was indignant with Dorothy for thus “giving 
way to her nerves.” 

“Do be sensible,” he said harshly, and her 
sobs became so overpowering that he was 
fain to call in the good woman of the house, 
and stand shamefacedly by while she soothed 
the eN'hausted girl, calling her “poor lamb,” 
and “poor darling,” and afterwards scolded 
him roundly for allowing her to excite herself. 

Presently she left them alone again, and 
he sat down by the girl and once more tried 
to comfort her. She yielded very readily to 
his endearments, and after a little he suceeded 
in persuading her that the face which had so 
startled her was only a product of her over- 
excited nerves. She did not really believe 
this, but as her physical nature recovered its 
balance she grew more calm, and by the time 
they were able to start on the return journey 
her common sense had once more conquered 
the sensitive psychical nature, and she had sug- 


238 THE STORY OF A DREAM 

ceeded in putting Father Bertram completely 
out of her mind. At first this was a rather 
difficult feat, since that mournful face would 
keep intruding between her and her lover, 
but at last, aided by the full tide of her ador- 
ing affection for Arthur, she forgot every- 
thing in the world but him, and — was happy, 
with the calm, untroubled, frail happiness pro- 
duced by a nerve-destroying drug. 

And so they talked and smiled and gazed 
at each other in the manner so easy of under- 
standing to those who have personally expe- 
rienced the delights of love-making, so in- 
comprehensible to the unfortunate ones who 
have never loved, and therefore lived, with 
all the force and power of their nature, until 
the slow, sweet summer dusk had fallen, and 
the long, silvery rays of the moonbeams, filter- 
ing through the tall tree-tops, warned them 
that the night was fast proceeding towards 
midnight. 

Then he lifted her into the buggy again, a 
quiet, unresisting burden this time, and on 
they went, along the same road they had 
traveled in the morning, but so different now 
in the soft mantle of darkness from what it 
had been in the golden light of the sunshine. 


A DREAM OF AN OVER-FILLED DAY 239 

SO changed by their altered state of mind, so 
weird and eerie in places that it seemed a 
totally different path from the cheerful road 
of the dewy dawn ; and once, as they passed 
through a deep ravine where the shadows 
were unusually black and heavy, an owl in a 
tree-top far above them at the head of the hill 
gave vent to his mournful, ghostly cry, and 
Dorothy shivered a little. 

Her lover looked at her face as they 
emerged into the moonlight again, and see- 
ing that she was pale and a little troubled (in 
truth she was thinking of the gentle scolding 
she expected to receive from Mrs. Stonehenge 
for not coming home sooner), he drew her 
to him and kissed her cool, soft cheek, which 
in the dim light looked almost transparent. 

“You are not afraid of me now, are you?” 
he asked as they passed the scene of the morn- 
ing’s disaster, and she softly whispered, as 
she slipped her hand into his unoccupied one, 
“No, but I am afraid to have you go away 
to-morrow, and not see you for weeks and 
weeks. What should I do if you should for- 
get me?” And two bright tears rolled down 
her face at the thought of this melancholy 
prospect, 


240 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


“When I forget you I shall remember noth- 
ing,” he answered, stooping to lay his face 
against hers ; “ but I dread the parting quite as 
much as you do, and I shall probably not see 
you again until our wedding-day. I wish,” 
with a sudden burst of passion, “ that that time 
was now, and I need never leave you again.” 

“So do I,” she murmured so softly that he 
was hardly sure that this was what she did 
say, but he kissed the sweet lips until they 
repeated the words he delighted to hear,then 
kissed them again for doing so; and so, in 
utter forgetfulness of everything but them- 
selves, they talked and held sweet communion 
until, all too soon, the house was in sight 
and the last sweet day had gone to that un- 
findable heaven to which, sooner or later, all 
of life’s lovely things do make their way, 
and from whence they can never be recalled. 

And as he lifted her to the ground (she did 
not shrink from him now) there came to both 
the bitter memory that this was the last time 
they would meet alone and together, for 
nearly three long months, an eternity accord- 
ing to love’s calendar, and they were sud- 
denly sad. 

Asher feet touched the ground he released 


A DREAM OF AN OVER-FILLED DAY 24 1 

her promptly, and she half turned away as 
though to enter the house, which was all 
dark and still, save for the light one of the 
“aunties” had placed in Dorothy’s window, 
hut in reality because she could not keep back 
the tears which came thick and fast as she 
thought of bidding him good-bye. 

But as she stood thus he drew her to him 
again, and taking her chin in his hands, 
turned her face up to his own. 

“It is good-bye, dear,” he said softly, “the 
real good-bye, I mean, for when we meet to- 
morrow mirninof there will be others there, 
and you will be shy and I constrained.” 

She did not answer, and he saw that the 
tears were running down her face, so folding 
her in his arms, he held her thus for several 
moments; then, gently pushing her into the 
house, he kissed her again slowly and linger- 
ingly^ and stood for an instant with his face 
pressed close against her soft, crisp, perfumy 
hair. 

“Good bye,” he said tensely, and she 
sobbed back “Good-bye” with all the utter, 
despairing sadness of a first parting. Then, 
with eyes which were a little dim and a tight 
feeling around his heart, he watched her go 


242 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


slowly up the narrow stairs until she disap- 
peared around the sharp bend at the top. 
When he turned awa}^ to care for the horse 
he saw it as through a mist, and when, to 
clear his eyes, he winked vigorously, some- 
thing small, and round, and bright, fell to his 
coat lapel and lay there shining. 

The summer was over, and the autumn 
days, bright and glad perhaps, but still want- 
ing the sweet warmth and gladness of the 
summer season, had begun. 

Early next morning the sad farewells were 
said, Arthur started on his long-delayed busi- 
ness trip, and Mrs. Stonehenge, declaring 
that she had never spent so pleasant a sum- 
mer, took Dorothy back to a world of conven- 
tionality by way of a month spent in New 
York. 

And as the train rushed along, bearing her 
away from the people she loved so dearly, 
3^et taking her on to prepare for her marriage 
day, the girl softly hummed a little song 
which her lover had taught her: 

“Out of the whole wide world I chose thee, 

The whole woild could not enclose thee, 

For thou art all the world — ” 

(Ah, the heart which inspired those grandly 


A DREAM OF AN OVEB-FILLED DAY 243 

simple lines must surely have beat in unison 
with the love-current of the whole universe.) 

“For thou art all the world, 

For thou art all the world to me, 

Sweetheart, sweetheart, sweetheart.” 

This dream of the life of my darling nearly 
became the death of my physical body, for 
it happened to me in the daytime when I 
was engaged in the service of the altar, and 
came in flashes of a pictured story which 
seared my very brain with their sudden, 
sharp light. When Dorothy, my own soul’s 
double, fell into the water my heart stood 
still, and for the moment I was completely 
paralyzed, and when she called upon my 
name I fainted, they said. Kind hands took 
me to my own chamber, the battle ground of 
my heart and soul, the sacristy, and as I re- 
covered consciousness I heard them talking 
sadly of me. 

“His soul is too strong for his body,” 
they said, “he is so pure and good,” and my 
heart nearly broke with the shame of it. When 
I swooned again, my astral body journeyed 
far away and stood by Dorothy’s couch, and 
this too, together with the sight of her grief, 
and the knowledge of how far apart our 


244 STORY OF A DREAM 

souls had traveled, made me like to die. 
And when I again woke to the world around 
me I was very sad. But although I remem- 
bered the dream then and knew I had seen my 
love, yet on the following morning I — that is, 
my earthly brain — had forgotten, and knew 
it no more until after — after the death blow 
was dealt to me by Dorothy’s own hand. 

But up here in Devachan I remember, 
and sometimes I pity myself for the pain 
I suffered then. But in those days I went 
on dreaming by night (although I seldom 
slept, and would not yield to the wishes of 
my friends and go away), and the dreams 
stole my very life from me. 

And this is a dream which came to me 
one night when my eyes were closed and my 
brain quiescent, while, my soul lived and — 
remembered. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


A DREAM OF THE DEATH OF THE ISRAELITE. 

It was early winter in the land of Israel, 
and the flocks were gathered in groups in 
the sheltered corners of the bare pastures, 
while the shepherds sat silent and drearj^ 
upon the ground. No longer they piped 
gayly or sang as they guarded the sheep; no 
more they made whistles or wild-sounding 
flutes from long grasses or stalks of grain ; 
the}’ were sad with the coming of the winter, 
and with the memory of the past summer, 
in the which the God of the Israelites had 
visited the sins of his chosen children heavily 
upon them and given them but a poor harvest. 
The thought of the famine in the land lay 
heavy upon them, and they prayed sadly as 
they thought of the evil years to come. 

Now the Israelite who had betrayed the 
Ishmaelitish maiden was well prepared for the 
245 


246 THE STORY OF A DREAM 

rainy season, and his garners were overflow- 
ing with the grain he had purchased from 
the father of the maiden ; yet was he sad and 
his heart heavy within him. And his kin- 
dred looked sadly upon him and said: “Why 
is his soul so sad? He has grain in plenty 
and to spare; the maiden to whom he is be- 
trothed is fair to look upon and her desire 
is towards him ; he has made sacrifices to 
God for all the evil he did in sojourning with 
the Ishmaelites so long and staying within 
the borders of their land ; yet did not the 
peace offering which the high priest offered 
for the sins of the people comfort him, and 
he is still sad at heart. Wherefore are these 
things so?” 

And they questioned him regarding all 
these matters, and would have made a 
festival for him, saying, “Perchance it will 
lighten his spirit,” but he would not, and 
answered nothing to that which the}^ spake. 

And ever he wandered alone, 01 sat upon 
the high hills looking towards the land of 
Ishmael, and ever his soul did tear and rend 
itself until his body was worn with the strug- 
gle, and his face like that of a man who has 
been down to war. For his heart was ever with 


A DREAM OF THE DEATH OF THE ISRAELITE 247 

the maiden of Ishmael, and the offering of the 
high priest had not washed from his soul the 
knowledge of his bitter sin. (For that was in 
days when men were wont to believe that the 
killing of another could wash aw'ay sin from a 
man’s soul.) And when he thought of her 
whom he loved and had betrayed, his soul 
wept and would not be comforted, and his 
eyes ran over with tears. And when, at 
night, he sat looking at the world around him, 
he saw nothing save her face raised to his 
and her body as it lay upon the ground as he 
had left her bending over the youth whom 
he had slain. And his heart was very tender 
towards the youth whom he had slain, for 
now he knew wherein the stripling had suf 
fered, even as he was himself suffering, and 
there is sympathy between those who mourn 
for a like pain. 

And once he said, ‘‘Would God I had left 
the maiden to marry the man who loved her, 
for now have I betrayed her to misery, per- 
chance to death,” and he feared to hear that 
she had been stoned. 

Now he was a judge in Israel, and once it 
came to pass that a maiden who had lost 
her virginity was brought to him, and the 


248 THE STORY OF A DREAM 

people demanded that she be stoned. And 
when the maiden looked at him she had eyes 
like unto her whom he had betrayed, and his 
heart failed him. And he said, “Let her not 
be stoned ; let her be cast out of the camp. 
She is so young, and has been more sinned 
against than sinning. Let her not be stoned.” 

But the people cried with a loud voice, and 
said unto him, “Art thou he who judgest 
Israel, and sayest she shall not be stoned? 
Verily thou art mad.” 

And when he heard the voice of their cry- 
ing he said, “Verily I did but dream. Surely 
she shall be stoned.” 

And the people shouted, and said, “Verily 
now thou art our own judge again, and knowest 
the laws of our God,”and they applauded him 
with their hands and made obeisance to him. 

But as the maiden whom he had condemned 
to be stoned was led away she turned and 
looked at him, and his heart was broken, for 
she seemed like the maiden he had loved. 
And he laid his head on his arm and threw 
his mantle over his face, and wept bitterly. 
And when he would not say what it was which 
troubled him, the people were wroth, and 
they said, “He is mad,” arid would have him 
for judge of Israel no more. 


A DREAM OE THE DEATH OF THE ISRAELITE 249 

Now he was glad to be no longer judge 
(although it troubled him sore that he had con- 
demned the maiden to death), for he wanted 
but to sit upon the high hills which looked 
towards Ishmael (therefore did he guard the 
sheep and lambs from the wolves which would 
have devoured them)and watch if perchance 
tidings might come from thence. For in his 
heart he still loved the Ishmaelitish maiden 
as the apple of his eye. Yet repented he 
not of the sin he had done, but said contin- 
ually, “How could I take an Ishmaelitish 
maiden to my father’s house?” and believed 
himself justified thereby. For in’ those days 
men were wont to excuse their wicked ac- 
tions by false and petty reasons, even as they 
do to this day. 

And it came to pass that one night as he 
sat watching towards Ishmael he saw a mes- 
senger coming swiftly across the plain in 
the moonlight. And the messenger wore the 
garb of a mourner, and the heart of the man 
of Israel stood still with fear and dread. And 
he went forth to meet the messenger, and the 
man of Ishmael said to him, “Art thou the 
Israelite who didst go down to Ishmael to 
buy grain while yet the summer was abroad 
in the land?” 


250 


THE STORY OE A DREAM 


And the Israelite answered and said, “I 
am he. What tidings dost thou bring?” 

And the Ishmaelite said, “I bring thee ti- 
dings of the death of the maiden whom thou 
didst betray and leave to die in sorrow. Verily 
she is dead, and thou art to blame for her 
going to the Valley of Death in the days of 
her youth.” 

And the Israelite covered his head with his 
mantle and was silent for a little space, and 
when he spake again his face was like that 
of a man long dead. His voice, too, shook 
like a vine on a day when the wind is high, 
and this was the manner of his speech: 

“What was the fashion of her death?” he 
asked, and his eyes were as fierce fires as he 
spoke. “Was she stoned?” 

And the other answered, hot also with 
wrath, but filled with pity for the stricken 
Israelite, “Nay, she was not stoned, for she 
died while yet her shame was hid. But the 
heart of her mother is bowed to the dust, and 
her child, thy child, has gone to the land of 
darkness with her.” 

And the Israelite answered, “ It is well. 
And had she word or thought of me?” 

And the . messenger was very pitiful as he 


A DREAM OF THE DEATH OF THE ISRAELITE 25 1 

told him, '‘Yea, verily she died still loving 
thee, and she desired that thou shouldst know 
that thou still hadst her love. But verily 
thou hast done her a cruel wrong, and her 
soul shall wait thine and reproach thee when 
thou goest to meet thy God. For a woman is 
the tender thing of all that God has made, 
and no w’rong done to a woman shall go un- 
avenged while yet the earth stands. Where- 
fore be careful when thou crossest the Dark 
River, for it may be that she will push thee 
back into the stream, and thou shalt live no 
more. Yet would she not do this, for she 
loved thee too well, and would have spared 
thee even from the remembrance of thy sin. 
Yet think not to go scatheless, for her God 
shall avenge her, even if thine shouldst let 
thee go unpunished.” 

And the Israelite made answer, It is well,” 
and the other left him and went again across 
the plain in the moonlight swiftly. 

And the Israelite lay down upon the grass of 
the field, and wept bitterly as he thought of the 
maiden who had loved him and who was dead, 
and of the child whom he should never see 
and could never claim even in heaven. But 
still he excused his sin after his old fashion. 


252 ' THE STORY OP' A DREAM 

by saying, ^‘How could I take an Ishmael- 
itish maiden to mj^ father’s house ?” and he 
repented him not of his sin, albeit he grieved 
exceedingly for the consequences of it, for 
such is the manner of men in all ages. 

And when the stars were sinking he started 
up suddenly and cried aloud to the God he 
worshiped, and wept upon his knees and W'as 
very sad. And after that he sank down upon 
the grass again and was so exceeding still that 
the sheep came and rubbed softly against him, 
and he made no stir. And even w'hen the 
ewe he loved mourned for the untimely death 
of her young lamb, he answered not the voice 
of her lamentations; and his dog also howled 
by his side and thrust his cold nose into the 
colder hand of his master. 

And it came to pass that in the morning, 
in the gray light ere it w^as yet hardly day, 
the shepherds came to the held and found 
him thus, and they said, '‘He is dead.” 

Yet was he not dead, for he presently spake 
to them, but his words were as the babbling of 
a child. And they spake yet again: “Said 
w'e not but 3^esterday that he was mad ? 
Verily his senses have left him. Perchance 
some Ishmaelitish maiden did bewitch him 
wdiile he sojourned in their land.” 


A DREAM OP' THE DPIATII OP' TPIE ISRAELITE 253 

And they pitied him greatly, and led him 
away to his father’s house. 

And all the winter months he mourned 
exceedingly and bitterly for the maiden who 
was dead, and regarded not the blandishments 
of his kindred or the damsel to whom he was 
betrothed. Neither did he change or speak 
differently when she was married to another. 
But yet told he not his kindred of the reason 
of his sorrow, and they knew naught of the 
Isrnaelitish maiden or of the messenger who 
had come to him with tidings of her death 
while yet he watclied in the moonlight. 

And when the spring began to bless the 
land he went to live in the fields which looked 
towards Ishmael, and ever his soul pined and 
his body grew more frail. 

And it came to pass that one morning when 
. the sun arose he lay in the field with his man- 
tle over his head, and the shepherds drove his 
dog from him and uncovered his face. And 
lo! it was filled with a great surprise, and 
behold, the man was dead! 

Now this dream was the last of those which 
visited me before my Ijfe-dream came to a 
close which brought me up here in this land 
of shadows, and it came to me the day of 


254 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


Dorothy’s return to Chicago. And on the 
morrow I went to see her, for I said, ‘‘I will 
be brave and face my defeat at once. All 
summer I have struggled with my love for her, 
but it still remains. Perhaps if I see her and 
hurt it bravely it may die before I do.” For 
I knew that my body would soon die, so weak 
and ill I was, but of my soul I dared not think. 
Had I not, for love of a woman, forsworn my 
vows as a priest of the Holy Catholic Church, 
in heart if not in word, and what would the 
Mighty Judge think of such wickedness.^ 
For although I preached a God of love and 
forgiveness to my people, I thought of him 
as a stern Judge, and dreamed not that he 
would look forgivingly upon my useless 
struggle with the love which consumed me. 

But now I know better, and this was that 
portion of my life-dream which gave my soul 
release. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


A DREAM OF A DEATH BLOW, AND PEACE. 

She opened the door to me herself, my 
sweet little forbidden love, and her face paled 
at sight of me. I noticed, dimly, vaguely, 
that this was so, but I had so much to do in 
order to keep my own rebellious heart in sub- 
jection that I hardly wondered about it, and 
I was numb as with bitter cold, as I followed 
her into the parlor and dropped into a chair 
opposite the low rocker which was her favor- 
ite. 

She took it now, and, snatching up a trifle 
of needlework from the table at her elbow, 
fell to stitching with nervous speed and en- 
ergy. From time to time she cast apprehen- 
sive glances towards me, which I saw and 
wondered at, but she did not speak, and it 
was I who opened the conversation at last. 

“Well, Dorothy,” I said with a ghastly 
255 


256 THE STORY OF A DREAM 

attempt at cheerfulness, “have you had a 
pleasant summer?” 

She started at the sound of my voice and 
bit her lip nervously, but quickly recovered 
herself and answered, “Oh yes, indeed; I 
did not know before that life could be so 
beautiful as it has been since I saw you last.” 

Poor little Dorothy! innocent child, how 
little you know of life! How impossible you 
would find it to believe that the same passion 
which has blessed you so magnificently has so 
tortured me! 

A little shade crossed her expressive face 
as she finished speaking, and she took up the 
work again. Ah me! even here I could draw 
the pattern of that flower she was embroid- 
ering. 

“Well,” I continued, seeing that she had 
no more to say, “I am vei*}’' glad of 3’'our hap- 
piness, my child. I suppose from what you 
told me when 3’ou went away that you are to 
be married soon.” 

She changed color rapidly, and looked 
at me as though her soul was tr3dng to warn 
me of a danger b3^ speaking through her eyes, 
and I fancied she made a great effort before 
forming the words, “Next week.” Her face 


A DREAM OF A DEATHBLOW, AND — PEACE 257 

was flooded with the blushing radiance pecu- 
liar to a girl who mentions her bridal day, 
and my wicked heart leaped wildly. But 
I conquered it by a might}^ effort, and my 
voice was as calm as death as I went on: 
“What day shall I prepare to perform the 
ceremony, my child?” 

Again she seemed to undergo that struggle 
for words, and when they finally came I knew 
why she had found it hard to speak. But 
she delivered her cruel thrust with all the 
calm courage and brave spirit which a hero 
shows in times of need, and only her trem- 
bling fingers showed how much emotion she 
was controlling. 

“You will not have to prepare at all. Fa — 
Mr. Bertram,” she said with a noble attempt 
at lightness, thinking thereby to soften the 
blow, no doubt, dear child; “you need not 
trouble about it at all.” 

She smiled up at me from her low seat, a 
sweet, tremulous smile which played brightly 
about her sensitive mouth and was lost among 
the shadows cast by her long, curling eye- 
lashes, as though seeking to reassure me, but 
I had heard the altered title and I was op- 
pressed with a vague, dire foreboding of evil, 


258 


THE STORY OF A -DREAM 


‘‘Why, Dorothy?” I asked very low, and 
a trifle quickly. “Why shall I not marry 
you? Who will read the service over you?” 

She struggled for speech again, then it came 
like a torrent. 

“No one,” she said, hastily, dropping that 
hateful flower at last, “No one. Mr. — m}^ 
husband — that will be — is an atheist, and we 
are going to be married by a justice of the 
peace.” 

“Dorothy!” I exclaimed in horror, “Dor- 
othy, m3’ child, do you mean it?” 

A ridiculous question, surel3q since I knew 
she would not joke upon such a subject, but 
“drowning men,” etc., etc. 

“Yes,” she whispered, looking at me with 
her dear eyes suddenly dim, “I surely mean 
it. No priest or pastor will assist at our union. 
Love is sacred and needs no such assistance.” 

I recognized her lover’s ver}^ tone and 
manner as she said this. Oh, bitterness of 
death! she was indeed his own in very truth. 
But she was apparently unconscious of any 
imitation, and I burst out with: 

“But, Dorothy, you surely don’t think it 
right that you, a Christian and Churchwoman, 
should do such a thing as this you speak 
of—” 


A DREAM OF A DEATH BLOW, AND — PEACE 259 

She caught at my words before I had fin- 
ished speaking, and then, — the blow fell, the 
blow which dealt out death to me. 

“But I’m not a Christian any longer,” she 
said in a hoarse whisper,and — my heart broke. 

“Oh, Dorothy, Doroth}’!” I moaned, al- 
most stunned with the force of the blow which 
had been so sudden, and yet which I had some- 
how dimly sensed as coming to me, although 
only now did I understand the vague presenti- 
ment of evil which had oppressed me for many 
days. “Oh, Dorothy, my child, why are you 
so blind? Do you not see the danger you are 
in? Free yourself from this wile of the evil 
one, and come back to the arms of your 
mother, the Church, and your Heavenly 
Father?” 

She looked at me wistfully for a moment 
and into her eyes there came a sudden gleam 
of determination, but it died quickly, and 
the set look came back to her sweet lips again. 

“It is no use,” she told me, avoiding, as I 
instinctively knew, the appellation of “Mr.,” 
since she could not or would not call me by 
her old affectionate title. “It is no use. I am 
far firmer in my atheism than ever I was in 
my C hristianity,and you are only wastingyour 


26 o 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


labor in trying to alter my new views. Let 
us,” with a ghastly attempt at playfulness, 
“Let us enjoy this, our last visit togethei.” 

“I shall never enjoy anything again, Dor- 
othy,” I told her passionately. “How can I 
ever be happy again, even in the glories of 
nature, when a soul I have cared for with far 
more than a pastoral love is condemned to 
everlasting death, straying awa}^ from, the 
Father’s care?” 

She did not answer, but her dear face 
quivered all over, as a stream quivers under 
a light passing wind, and again that look of 
longing came into her e37es for a brief mo- 
ment. Seeing this, I spoke more tenderly, 
and tried to move her by all the arts of persua- 
sion which lay at my command. 

“Dear child,” I said, “you are not hard 
and cold enough for the atheism you have 
taken up. Let it go, and come back to your 
first allegiance. Think of what it will be to 
recognize no power above that of your own 
will. You do not realize the loneliness of 
your position now, with your lover near, but 
think of how 3’ou will suffer when sorrow 
comes and you have no refuge toffee to. Oh, 
Dorothy, m^^ lost child, come back to the only 


A DREAM OF A DEATH BLOW, AND— BEACE 26 1 

Friend who will never desert or tire of you, 
and perchance you can bring your lover with 
you. There will be a time, my child, when 
he will grow weary, but the dear Lord never 
grows weary. And when that time comes, 
Dorothy, to whom will you turn for sympa- 
thy? Come back before it is too late!” 

I had spoken with convincing force, and 
when I hinted that her lover might grow 
weary in his love she became very pale, but 
she was still firm, firm with the deathless cour- 
age of blind obedience to a mighty love. 
With all my despair I reverenced her, sym- 
pathized with her in her loyalty, for even so 
would I have worshipfully obeyed her if 
only, — 1 had been a man simply, not a priest. 

I would have spoken again, but she rose with 
an air which intimated that it was time that I 
should say good-bj^e, and I rose too, perforce; 
and as she stood there pale, trembling, won-' 
drously beautiful, her small white hand lying 
on the back of the chair near her, T made a 
last appeal, and spoke forth the anger which 
consumed me, the anger which raged against 
the man who had overthrown the work I had 
labored so hard, so lovingly, to do. 

“Dorothy,” I said, my voice sinking to a 


262 THE STORY OF A DREAM 

throbbing murmur, “Doroth}^, give up this 
man who has so hypnotized you to evil. He 
is bad, he must be, to thus sway you against 
your higher nature.” 

Then the woman in her stirred itself, and 
spake after the following fashion: “I will 
hear nothing against my lover,” she said with 
a proud lift of her head; ‘‘he is not bad, and 
he does not sway me for evil. He has freed 
me from the chains of superstition j^ou forged 
around me, and even if he were as evil as you 
think, I would not exchange his love for all 
the hopes of heaven which the world holds. 
I would go to hell, were there really such a 
place,” with a disdainful smile, “with him 
rather than to heaven without him.” 

“You are a true woman, Dorothy,” I re- 
plied, struck with admiration of her womanly 
grandeur, “but you are sadly mistaken. Let 
me plead with you again before it is too late.” 

“We have argued enough,” she responded 
with a new haughtiness, “and I will hear no 
more.” 

I tried, however, to induce her to listen, 
but to no avail; she stood looking at me with 
her wide, sweet eyes gleaming with anger, yet 

sad with that under-light of pathetic wistful- 


A DREAM OR A DEATH BLOW, AND PEACE 263 

ness, and I was fain to go. As I took up my 
hat, the small round clerical hat ^vhich was 
the badge of my servitude, the insignia of 
rny separation from other men, she murmured 
something of her gratitude for my liking and 
the good I had tried, however mistakenly, 
to do her, but I hardly heard her, and I could 
not see her for the tears which blinded me. 
And she, too, was sad at parting thus, for not 
even a lover can make up to a true-hearted girl 
for the loss of a faithful friend, and her soul 
recognized me as such. 

. “Good-bye,” she said softly, with a sound 
of \veeping in her voice as I turned to go, 
“ Good-bye, and — ” “God bless you,” she had 
been going to say, I knew, but she caught at 
the words before they were spoken, and mur- 
mured instead, “and fate be kind to 370U.” 

I could not answer; I made a gesture of 
blessing and groped my way into the hall, 
almost running up against my friend Mrs. 
Stonehenge, who looked at me keenly as she 
greeted me. 

“Dorothy, poor misguided child, has been 
telling you of her slipping away from the 
truth, I see,” she said kindly; “I do not 
wonder that it has been a severe blow to you. 


264 the story of a dream 

It nearly prostrated me when first I knew of 
it, but I do not despair, and I know you have 
too great faith to do so.” 

In my secret heart I knew differently, but 
I could not answer. She opened the door 
for me herself, not calling a servant to wit- 
ness my altered appearance, and I went out 
into the street. 

As I went down I met her lover, and was 
.almost maddened by the triumph in the con- 
temptuous glance he threw at me. I could 
have taken his strong, round throat between 
my hands and strangled the life from its 
haughty beauty; I hated him as men never 
hate but once in a lifetime. He lifted his hat 
ironically, but I did not return his salutation, 
and as I paused for an instant at the foot of 
the steps, I heard his gay voice calling, 
“Where are you, my darling.?” 

Surely his triumph was complete, and so 
was my humiliation, but alas for the time to 
come ! 

soul began to leave me in the agony of 
that hour, and I was but dimly conscious of 
the world around me that day. I wandered 
on carelessl}^ not thinking of where my steps 
led, until I found myself at the door of the 


A. DREAM OF A DEATH BLOW, AND PEACE 265 

woman who had been my soul-mother in my 
boyhood, the woman who had warned me 
that Love was stronger than the soul of a 
man, and I stood gazing up at her window 
for some time before I rang the bell and went 
into her dark, cool, shady parlor. It reminded 
me dimly of my own confessional, and it was 
a confessional, for the woman whom I sought 
was one of Nature’s appointed confessors, and 
knew the secrets of half her world. 

She came down to me presently, her kind 
face smiling over my return, as she supposed, 
to her friendship, and at sight of me she stood 
aghast. 

‘‘My dear boy!” she exclaimed, with a 
startled gaze, “what has happened to you? 
Surely your battle with yourself has gone 
hard with your physical nature. And have 
you conquered?” putting a gentle hand upon 
my arm and leading me to a comfortable 
seat. 

“No,” I answered, feeling the bitterness 
of defeat anew with her affectionate glance 
reading me, “No, I have not conquered. I 
have been utterly defeated, and worse than 
that has come to pass.” 

I buried my face in my hands and was si- 
lent with the very force of my agony. 


266 ITHE STORY OF A DREAM 

“What is it, my son?” she asked so kindly 
that I nearly broke down. “What is driving 
you to despair?” 

In a few words I told her, and so great 
was her relief that she almost laughed aloud. 
Stung to anger, I lifted my haggard counte- 
nance and faced her. “Do you laugh at my 
misery?” I said, hoarse with rage and pain. 
“Can you, in whom I trusted, make sport of 
my sorrow?” 

“No, indeed,” she made answer quickl}^, 
“far be it from me to laugh at any sorrow, but 
I thought from what you had said and left 
unsaid, that something far worse than the 
reality had happened. I feared you had 
committed some fearful sin. Believe me, 
my friend, the path which your pupil has 
taken (she utterly ignored my love for my 
darling) may lead her nearer right than the 
one you had marked out for her. All roads 
lead to Rome, you know, and a better way 
of putting the same idea is that all roads lead 
to good eventually. Ever}’ path, however 
long, however devious, however painful, leads 
a soul to its higher self at the last.” 

“How can she find her way to her higher 
self, when she has wandered away from the 


A DRI^AM of a death blow, and — PEACE 267 

Lord?” I moaned, and the woman before me 
smiled. * 

“What is so narrow as orthodox religion ?” 
she asked with a quiet, sad smile. “Do you 
know that sometimes my heart aches to think 
what the Christ must suffer from his own fol- 
lowers? He was, he is, so tender,so loving, so 
all-embracing in his love, and the churches are 
so rigid, so small. Did not the Christ himself 
sa}^ ‘Whoso cometh to me I will in nowise 
cast out,’ and did he limit the way? It is so 
pitiful, this thought, this fancy, for it is hardly 
a thought, that God has but one way of sav- 
ing souls. And even if the girl you — love — 
has gone wrong now; granting, which I do 
not for an instant admit, that she is farther 
from the truth than when she blindly followed 
a creed, is there not time enough and to spare 
in eternity for all mistakes to be made good?” 

“It will be too late when eternity is 
reached,” I said despairingly; “death ends 
the day of grace, the time of repenting. Oh, 
if I could but bear the consequences of her 
sins for her!” 

“No man can do that,” said my friend 
sadly, “no man can answer for the evil done 
by another, but your friend has not done evil. 


268 


THEi S'EOIiY OF' A DK.EAM 


Mistaken she may be, doubtless is, since ma- 
terialism is a false idea, contradictory to the 
higher instincts of the soul, but not wrong in 
that she is striking out from the beaten paths. 
Better that she should. Old surroundings 
are often stifling, and under new skies all 
things are possible.” 

“But she is lost,” was m3" bitter cry, “lost 
for all time.” 

“Nay, do not be so foolis-h,” was the gen- 
tle answer; “do not so limit the power of 
God. Your friend is safe, no matter what 
she thinks, safe in the love of the Infinite. 
It is her Karma to go through this experi- 
ence; why should 3"Ou try to hinder her?” 

I started; I had forgotten that my friend 
was a Theosophist, a woman who believed 
in many incarnations, many lives, strung on 
a single soul like beads upon a string. My 
wrath turned upon her. 

“Do not talk to me of your pernicious 
ideas,” I exclaimed, “they are wrong and 
foolish.” 

“Not so, my hasty friend,” she replied, 
quietl}", although her kind eyes flashed omi- 
nously, “not so. The idea of reincarnation 
fits your conception of a loving God far bet- 


A DREAM OF A DEATH BLOW, AND PEACE 269 

ter than that of a single life. Why, the very 
thought of one life and then eternity is ab- 
surd. It limits the idea of God to a narrow 
and cruel one. What earthly father would be 
so cruel?” 

I tried to stop the flow of her words, but 
she was wrought up to the subject and my 
remonstrances had no effect. “The relation 
of one life to eternity,” she continued, “is less 
than that of one day to a lifetime. Who 
would think of judging an entire life by one 
day, whether for good or evil? Supposing 
you had a little child whom you had cared 
for and loved,” (her voice tender as that of 
every true woman’s is when speaking of the 
thing which at heart they all hold dearer than 
anything else which life can give, her eyes 
humid, her lips curved softly. Ah, the tender, 
sweet mother-look !) “and you said to that lit- 
tle child, ‘Now, you can have but to-day to 
settle the rest of your life; as you act to-day 
so must you stand or fall, so must you live in 
joy or sorrow while your life lasts;’ would 
you be kind, or fatherly, or just? 

“And supposing that such a case as this 
were possible to a man, and supposing that 
at night the little child came to you and it 


270 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


had done that which was wrong or foolish, 
perchance even wicked, would you condemn 
it on account of that one day? Would you 
not be more like to say, ‘You have done fool- 
ishly, my child; you have pained me and I 
am sorry; but try again to-morrow?’ And 
if to-morrow the same thing should occur, 
would you not again give the other chance? 
And this is just what God does with us. We 
fall in this life; in the next we rise, and we 
grow upwards ever. Far there is no lasting 
evil but character. All else is merely perverted 
good.” 

She stopped, breathless with her own elo- 
quence, and I said harshly, “ Such thoughts as 
you hold would poison the world if spread 
broadcast.” 

“Ah, no, they would not,” she smiled in 
answer, “ but they would comfort humanity. 
And surely the heart of the world has ached 
long enough! It is time that its tears should 
be dried. Take the conception 6f death, for 
instance, which has filled so many lives with 
terror, and become such a spiritual ogre that 
I have known little children to cry with ter- 
ror of it at night. Why, death is as painless, 
as natural, as easy as birth, and it is a friend 


A DREAM OF A DEATH BLOVV% AND PEACE 2^1 

to all. You speak and think of it as a black, 
shadowy road leading to a place of judg- 
ment; I, as a kind friend which comes to 
weary hearts with a loving message. ‘Here,’ 
it says to toiling hands, ‘it is time to rest, 
dear. Yes, you want to finish this piece of 
work. But it will wait for yotir waking, dear, 
and if not, other hands will take care of it. 
You are tired and ill in soul and body? Well, 
a long, long sleep awaits you, dreamless or 
with but pleasant visions to cheer 3^ou. You 
are sad? Then you shall rejoice to-morrow\ 
For all things are new every morning, and 
a life-morning shall come in good time to 
you. Rest easily, all is well.’ And when the}^ 
will not come, death takes them in his tender 
arms and carries them to rest, even as a moth- 
er bears an unwilling child to its cradle. 
Teach such thoughts as this to the world and 
the sad soul of humanity will smile and grow 
glad. And all mankind shall be comforted.” 

•‘You have not comforted me,” I told her, 
as, determined to hear no more, I rose to 
leave. “You have failed me in rny hour 
of need, rather. Would to God you had 
comforted me!” 

“Then I have failed in trying to do so,” 


272 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


she murmured, seizing my cold, trembling 
hands, and holding them in her warm, kind 
clasp, “but you will never be comforted, my 
boy, until the Great Comforter comes to you. 
Your wound is too deep for human hands, 
and you reject divine aid. Make a sacrifice 
of your sorrow, since you cling to the sacri- 
ficial idea, and be brave. Do you think God 
has but one way to care for and save the souls 
he has made ?” 

But I would not listen. “,Good-bye,”I said, 
brokenly, “good-bye and God bless you.” 

“Good-bye,” she answered, sorrowfully, yet 
peacefullyfah, how I envied her calm peace- 
fullness! It was the quiet of utter self-renun- 
ciation), “good-bye, until we meet again.” 

“We shall never meet,”* I told her, “for I ' 
shall not see you again in this life, and our 
paths will lie far apart in the next.” 

She smiled, gentl}^ mournfully, pityingly. 
“What matters it about this life or the next,” 
she asked, softly, “when we have all eter- 
nity before us? We shall meet again some- 
time, my dear, for our souls are something 
akin.” 

I made no answer. I went into the hall 
silently, out as far as the door, then I turned. 


A DREAM OF A DEATH BLOW, AND — PEACE 273 

She was looking at me with the tender 
glance which falls upon the face of a dead 
man. We both knew that it was a long 
farewell we were saying, but she w'as the 
only one who cared. My soul was fast leav- 
ing my bod}^ and the only sensation I felt 
was a dim regret, a vague pain. 

I waved her a last parting salutation, and 
wandered out into the street. All day I walked 
slowly, unconsciously along, and when night 
came I returned to the church. And all the 
while my soul was drawing away from my 
body, although I knew not then the meaning 
of the strange weakness of my physical body, 
and the reason of my mental quietude. The 
only time that day when I was really alive 
was when a trifling incident occurred which 
shook my nature to the very foundation. 

A street musician was grinding out his 
squeaky melodies upon a corner where I 
passed by, and the strains of “Marguerite” 
floated to my brain, fast becoming too para- 
lyzed to think naturally. “But, oh! I dread 
the weary day, when thou wilt me forget,” I 
seemed to hear Dorothy singing. She had 
always loved that song, and had insisted upon 
singing it frequently. “I don’t care how 


274 STORY OF A DREAM 

old or worn it is,” she had said once, with 
a pretty pout at her aunt’s remonstrances, I 
love it.” And she had often sung it to me, 
for I, too, loved the quaint, sweet, worn- 
out air. I seemed to see her now, to hear 
her sweet voice issuing from her dear, red, 
small mouth, and my whole being thrilled 
with a sharp, cruel pain, — almost the last 
I was to suffer. 

I hurried on, seeking to escape from the 
memory of m}^ lost, treasured sweetheart, 
and the music seemed to pursue me. 

“But, oh! the thought you’ll not be mine, 
w'ill break my heart,” rang out after me, and 
my reason was saved by a sudden burst of 
tears. I pulled my hated hat down to my 
very brows, set my lips firmly, and plodded 
on through the desolate rain which was pour- 
ing disconsolately down upon me. Was it 
weeping with me? I wondered. 

‘‘My little lost lamb!” I moaned, as the 
thought of Dorothy rose before me; “my 
poor little lost lamb!” and this was how I 
ever thought of her after that. She was never 
Dorothy to me again, but always a little, wan- 
dering lamb which had slipped from the 
shepherd’s care and was running into danger 


A DREAM OF A DEATH BLOW, AND PEACE 275 

alone. Tt was a kind illusion sent to comfort 
me, to steal away the bitterness of my pain, 
and it stayed with me until the end. “My 
little lost lamb!” 

That night T slept dreamlessly, and for 
the rest of that dream-life I suffered no more 
until the last pang. I did my work in a kind 
of trance, answering questions, preaching, 
prajffng, unconsciously, and daily the silver 
thread which bound my soul to my body grew 
more attenuated, until, at the last pang, 
when it broke its bonds and mounted from 
me, I hardly knew that I was free, and 
looked upon the priest who had been me, as 
another man, which he certainly was. 

And the manner of my passing from the 
bondage of the body was as follows: I had 
entered the sacristy very weary in body, 
quite passive as to mind, and dropped into 
my chair with a dreamy, vague feeling that 
something new, something fresh lay before 
me. And it seemed to me that a light sleep 
fell upon me, a slumber from which I awoke 
to find myself somewhere, — where — cur- 
iously light and airy, and gazing down upon 
— what? Gazing down at a man, clad in a 
priest’s garments, who la}^ stretched out in 


276 THE STORY OF A DKKAM 

the chair which was mine, a man just waking 
from slurnbei. I was not that man, for I 
Vv^atched him curiously, wondering what he 
Vv^ould do next, but I felt with him, and suf- 
fered in his pain. For awhile he lay there mo- 
tionless, while I read his thoughts; then he 
sat up in the chair, and looked at a paper 
which lay on the table before him, and then — 
1 looked upon a dead body, and the man was 
— no man at all, but what had once been a 
man. The paper lay spread out to its full 
size, just as the careless janitor had left it 
when he unwrapped the parcel of books it 
had contained, and the “miscellaneous page” 
was folded outside. “The Grey Angel,” 
was the first heading which met the eye of 
the tired man, who had been me, but was 
only my lower consciousness, now, and in- 
definably attracted by it he read as follows : 

“God sent an angel to the earth one day, 
and as he slowly sank through the clear at- 
mosphere he looked like a simple cloud. He 
was not white and bright and shining as other 
angels are, but was wrapped with folds of 
heavy gray mist, and his face was covered 
with a veil of the same. So it came to pass 
that men, seeing him, thought only of his 


A DREAM OF A DEATH BLOW, AND PEACE 2^7 

cold, stern appearance, and cared not to lift 
the veil and gaze at the kind, sweet face it 
hid. 

“And the angel wondered that men should 
thus shun him, for he thought, ‘Why should 
they flee from me, who come to give each 
soul all it needs or longs for?’ and for a little 
space he wished for some more attractive 
garb. 

“But it is only men, of all creation, who 
dare or care to question the wisdom of the 
Great Mind of the universe, so the gray angel 
went calmly on, to begin the work which 
awaited him. 

“'And presently he came to where a little 
child lay ill with a terrible fever. And the 
gray angel said, ‘He is very tired’ and he 
lifted the infant in his loving arms, and the 
child grew still and quiet, and his pale lips 
smiled once more. And the mother, watch- 
ing near, cried out that her child was gone, 
and there was great weeping and lamentation 
because the baby was all rested and well 
again. 

“But the angel only smiled tenderly as he 
went on his way, and soon he saw a weary 
woman weeping over that saddest of all the 


278 THE STORY OF A DREAM 

sad things mortals know, — a lost hope, — and 
parting his gloomy veil, he showed her his 
gentle countenance. 

“‘And I thought you a dread and terrible 
thing,’ murmured the woman, as she stretched 
out her arms to him, as a tired child does 
to its mother, and again the angel smiled. 

“Then an old man crept along, his face sad 
and worn and his lips trembling, and in the 
space of a moment he was young and strong 
again. And the careless relatives, who, but 
yesterday, had thought him a dreary care, 
said with one accord, ‘How very sad!’ 

“Next the angel visited a worldh^ woman, 
tired and heart-weary of her empty, useless 
life, and he whispered in her ear, ‘Come with 
me, and I will take you to the realization of 
your dreams, where your child-lovcr,and the 
cherished baby who never existed save in 
your lonely, hungry heart, await you. Come!’ 
And the great lady was very willing. 

“Not far from her stately mansion, a man 
lay on his hard bed, sick with a bitter dis- 
appointment. ‘All these years,’ he moaned, 
‘I have worked on that one invention, and 
now they say it is not practicable. And 1 
know I could make it so if I only had the 


A DREAM OR A DEATH BLOW, AND — PEACE 279 

money,’ and like a child the strongman wept 
himself to sleep. And as he slept, the angel 
told him sweet tales of the state to which he 
would presently take him, where each man’s 
work is valued at its true worth, and success 
comes sure and soon, and the man leaped, with 
a joyous bound, right into the angel’s arms. 
‘What a life-failure!’ said all his friends, ‘he 
was such a pitiable dreamer!’ not knowing 
that he had gone to where a man’s sweet 
dreams have all a glorious fulfillment. 

“Soon the angel, passing on, saw a lovely 
girl stand at her wedding-altar, and as he 
looked through the coming years, and saw 
her idolized lover become enamored of an- 
other woman and her treasured baby grow 
to a sinful manhood, he pitied the tender 
heart which must suffer so much, and he folded 
his cloak around her. At first she strug- 
gled a little, but after one look into the an- 
gel’s tender eyes, she lay quite still. Then 
the angel saw that her mother would be very 
lonely without her,and he gently hushed her 
to sleep as she sat weeping for her daughter. 
‘Such a terrible affliction for that pqor young 
man!’ people said, but they did not know 
how much sin he was saved from, nor how 
kind the angel had been. 


28 o 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


“‘I wish the angel would come for me,’ 
moaned a tiny cripple, hearing of all these 
wonders, and like a gray sunbeam the angel 
flew to his side. ‘I am not frightened,’ smiled 
the child, and the angel’s face shone with 
tenderness as he lifted the baby to his loving 
embrace. 

“Then he hovered over a 37oung maiden, 
who all her short life had longed with pas- 
sionate desire for physical beauty, and he 
heard her wail, ‘Why am I not fair to look 
upon? I who would give my life for beauty,’ 
and ere the tears on her face were dried, 
she was blessed with surpassing loveliness. 

“‘I am so weary!’ sighed a worn-out wom- 
an, ‘I have worked so hard and so long, and 
I have nothing to show for all m}^ labor. I 
wonder, shall I ever feel rested again ?’ ‘Yes,’ 
said the angel softly, ‘I will give you rest,’ 
and the woman smiled and was glad. 

“The angel had hardly turned from her, 
when a little baby, new to the chill air of this 
lower earth, cried a pitiful wail, and the gentle 
angel took it home again. And soon, ver}^ 
soon, he took the baby’s mother to her dar- 
ling, for it was her only child and she missed 
it sadly. 


A DRRAM OF A DFATH BLOW, AND — PEACE 28 1 

“And as the angel flew back to earth 
again, he heard his name called, and he 
straightway went to the tiny upper room from 
whence the voice came, A weary youth 
lay gasping there, longing for the health and 
freedom he had never known, and no sooner 
had he felt the angel’s gentle touch, than he 
was free forever. 

“Another prisoner gained his freedom 
soon, a man who, in his early youth, had 
committed a trivial, sin, and had sunk, for 
want of a helping hand, until there was no 
law, legal or moral, which he had not broken 
or transgressed. His utter despair and sad- 
ness touched the kind heart of the angel, and 
he comforted the sinner by taking him to 
where all sins are forgotten, and where all men 
are, in truth as well as word, ‘free and equal.’ 

“Outside the prison gates lingered a wom- 
an, but lately an inmate of the huge building, 
and she longed for, yet feared, the angel’s 
coming. But when he softly told her that 
by going with him she might yet have the 
chance to do the right which she had wished 
for so unavailingly so many years, she sighed 
gently, and nestled close to his side. 

“Very soon the angel heard a sound of 


282 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


bitter weeping, and he flew to the scene of 
sorrow. A worn old man and woman to- 
gether mourned a wayward son, but a touch 
of the angel’s hand hushed them, and they 
sorrowed no more. 

“And then a woman moaned that nothing 
she did was fortunate. ‘And I try so hard to 
do right,’ she sobbed. And the angel told 
her a tender stor}? of a time, near as she 
wished, when good intentions w^ould be the 
same, in effect, as deeds, and little kindl}^ 
acts would each one be appreciated. ‘I wish 
that time were now,’ said the tired girl, and 
lo! the time had come. 

“Then the angel found two fond lovers 
who could never be anything more to each 
other, and he quietly set matters right for 
them, and hardly had their happy faces faded 
from his sight, before he heard a woman 
weeping for her lost companion on a fifty 
years’ life-journe}^ ‘I will find him for you,’ 
he said kindly, and she cried no more. 

“‘I am heart-broken, heart-broken,’ came 
another cry which ended in a sob; ‘I cannot 
reach my ideal, and this, which I thought 
perfect, is but little better than my work of 
years ago. The end I seek is still far away.’ 


A DREAM OF A DEATH BLOW, AND PEACE 283 

‘No, it is here,’ said the angel, and there was 
a sound of great rejoicing. 

“The next act of the angel was to make 
happy a man who alwa 3 ^s longed unfruitfull}’ 
for love. ‘There is plenty of love where 
you are going,’ was the message he heard, 
‘enough to fill even your hungry soul,’ and 
his heart was emptj^ and cold no longer. 

“‘Oh for a rest!’ sighed another voice, ‘a 
rest, and time to think and sleep.’ And the 
woman slept and no one waked her. 

“‘Oh, if 1 could only stop learning for a 
little while!’ wailed a little child whose tin}’ 
mind and soul and body were alike exhausted 
with the hard task of trying to be ‘well edu- 
cated.’ And another, who had always been 
‘one too many,’ cried too for a place where 
there was room for him. The angel said 
nothing, but he stooped and gathered both the 
weary little victims of the ‘higher civiliza 
tion’ into his strong, tender arms, and they, 
smiling, slept on his breast. 

“And while they still rested there, the 
angel restored a woman, who cried out that 
‘her day was done and no one needed her 
any longer,’ to her youthful powers, and 
in serving others she was happy. 


284 the story of a dream 

“And a patient mechanic, who had labored 
at his trade for forty years, while all the while 
he longed for the fresh wind of the prairies, 
showed his sad heart to the angel, and the 
city held him no longer. 

“And a young enthusiast, whose ideals 
were too high for the rest of mankind, met 
with the gray angel, and he was no longer a 
‘crank’ but a ‘genius.’ 

“And as the angel bore him along, a toil- 
worn horse raised his sad, uncomplaining 
eyes to the soft, shady cloud above him, and 
his twenty years of faithful, thankless labor 
were rewarded at last. 

“A wild'bird, caged in a sunny window, 
where the sight of the green tree-tops and the 
small square of blue sky which were all he 
could see of the beautiful world around him, 
raided bitter, foolish longings for liberty in 
his breast, uttered a strange note, half joy, 
half sorrow, when he saw or felt the angel’s 
presence, and his next song was trilled in 
freedom. 

“A chained and muzzled dog saw that the 
bird was no longer a prisoner, and he howled 
so long and mournfully that people, hearing 
him, shivered with a half-superstitious fear. 


A DREAM OF A DEATH BLOW, AND — PEACE 285 

But the angel interpreted the sound aright, 
and soon neither chain nor muzzle hampered 
the poor beast. 

“A sad-faced woman who heard the dog’s 
howling, thought that she would be willing 
to be chained if only she could but utter her 
feelings in some manner, for nature had 
frozen her powers of expression. And the 
angel said, ‘You shall not onl}^ talk freely, 
you shall sing,’ and her joy knew no bounds. 

“And thus all day the angel worked, mak- 
ing sick people whole, bringing estranged 
hearts together, rendering the poor rich, set- 
ting the lonely in families, and the hungry- 
hearted in palaces. To the blind he gave 
sight, to the deaf he opened the wonders of 
sound, to the lame he brought strength, to 
the disappointed fresh hope, to the weary rest. 

“And at night he flew back whence he 
came, and the Great Spirit said, ‘Many angels 
have done well, but thou best of all.’ . 

And the name of the angel was 

Death.” 

Slowly down one column and up the next 
the priest’s sad eyes traveled, the while I 
watched above him, and when the end was 
reached he gave a great sigh. Death had been 


286 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


much in his — in my — thoughts lately; it 
seemed such a simple, easy solution of the 
troubles which beset him — me — and something 
in the common*place little article (was it 
a kindred feeling in the mind of the writer?) 
touched a sympathetic chord in his own soul, 
making me, the real Me above him, thrill 
strangely. Half-dreamily, he read the thing 
through again, and this time he read on to the 
little poem which followed it. Strangely 
enough the subject of this, too, was death, 
and again his heart responded to the spirit of 
the author. “The Friend of Men” the 
simple lines were headed, and they were in- 
expressibly soothing to the weary man, who 
loved rhythm with the passionate love of an 
artistic soul. 

“O gentle Death, men call thee foe, 

, But nay, thou art a friend ; 

Thou openest wide thy soft, strong arms, 

Their woes are at an end. 

And sweeter far to weary hearts 
Than time of living breath, 

Is that in which thou takest them 
To thy grand peace, O Death! 

“Wide as the sunshine on the hills, 

Soft as the summer rain, 

Thy gentle benison descends 
On all who suffer pain. 


A DREAM OF A DEATH BLOW, AND PEACE 287 


No weight of grief, no load of care, 

But thou surcease canst give, 

And rest for all the weary ones, 

Who, sad and suffering, live. 

“In thy repose is room for all. 

And liberty and peace, 

With gladness for the desolate. 

For prisoned souls release. 

For hungry hearts their fill of love, 

Joy with their own again. 

What! call thee cruel, tender Death! 

Thou art the friend of men.” 

So the little verses ran, and as the reader, 
me no longer now, strangely stirred, finished 
them, his eyes wandered down the page again 
and fell upon an insignificant paragraph under 
the head of ‘‘ Marriages.’’ This time he started 
as though stricken by a sudden pain, making 
my bodiless entity shiver,for there, staring him 
in the face, with letters which seemed formed 
of seething fire, was a little notice which sent 
the blood leaping from his heart to his face, 
and back to his heart with terrific force and 
suddenness. (I had an indefinable knowl- 
edge that we would never be one again, my 
lower consciousness and the me which floated 
free, and I was vaguely glad.) 

“Arthur Howard to Dorothy Evelyn 


288 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


Perseus,” he read with fascinated, despair- 
ing eyes, and he bitterly realized that now, 
indeed, he was undone in very truth. All 
hope, unconsciously held before, left him im- 
mediately ; he knew how utterl37 a cause is lost 
when a woman is won, and his heart broke. 
Laying his head on his folded arms, his 
body sank until they rested on the, table be- 
fore him, and his knees touched the floor. 
In that moment of wretched despair, his prayer 
changed from “Oh, Lord, save this wander- 
ing lamb,” to “Oh, Lord, let me die. My 
life has been a failure; even this one soul 
which I have labored, only thou knowest 
how hard, to save, is lost, and I am weighed 
and found wanting. Let me die. Let me 
die.” 

And it came to pass that his prayer was 
answered. 

The janitor, coming to sweep the church, 
saw him kneeling there (it was a sight he had 
often seen upon entering the sacristy sud- 
denl 3 ^),and stole softly out again. “Sure and 
I won’t disturb him, the houly saint,” he said, 
and put off his sweeping until the following 
day. But next morning when he went again, 
very, very early, the priest was still there. 


A DREAM OF A DEATH BLOW, AND PEACE 289 

kneeling in exactly the same position of 
utter weariness and desolation. 

The faithful Irishman (who had good rea- 
sons and numerous for loving Father Bertram ) 
was seized with a sudden panic and called his 
friend by name. There was no answer, and 
he went in and lifted the drooping head, and 
lo! it was as he had feared. Father Bertram, 
with all his faults, his nariow ideas of the God 
he wished so earnestly to serve, his great 
love, his indecision and his goodness, had 
gone, — where.? 

Perhaps his closing eyes had seen a 
heavenly vision; perhaps with the super- 
natural powers some dying men are blessed 
with, he had seen the time when the prattling 
tongue of Dorothy’s first baby would lead 
back to the faith of her childhood, not only its 
mother,but also its father,and his own memory 
would be loved and revered. Perhaps he had a 
glimpse of the truth that there are standards 
of conduct, methods of judging action, which 
are far above those in use among men, and 
that on this plane, where earthly success is 
oftentimes worse than failure, and failuie 
better, purer, grander than success, he had not 
failed so utterly as he thought. Perhaps, — 


290 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


I know not what the man who had been me 
saw, for I was not for a short space of time, 
and then I was^ — God knows where — I do 
not. At all events, and whatever the cause, 
his face was so grandly beautiful with its ex- 
pression of peace, the wondrous look which 
so often comes to the dead mask, even when 
the spirit which animated it took its depart- 
ure amid mental and spiritual tumult, and the 
lovely frozen smile was so sweet that stran- 
gers, looking at it, wept, — and knew that 
God lived. 

After that moment when I watched the bitter, 
despairing end of the man who had been me, 
and was not for a moment, I began to suffer 
again. My soul was free of the body, but 
my personality was so bound down to earth 
by my love and thoughts that I could not 
leave the scenes of my last dream-life. I lin- 
gered around the house where my love lived, 
until she, looking out into the dark night, 
and thinking tenderly of me (for she had 
wept when they told her of my end), was 
able to see my astral body, and cried out that 
I was a ghost and had come to haunt her. I 
lingered near while they revived her, I whis- 


A DREAM OF A DEATH BEOW, AND PEACE 29 1 

pered sweet words of loving assurance to her, 
but she thought of me with dread from that 
time and was able to see me no more. Often 
have I bent over her while she slept, my frail 
shadow of a body not visible to those who 
nursed her; often have I kissed her brow, 
her sweet red lips which had grown so pale 
with fear of me who loved her so well, but 
she could not see, she would not hear, al- 
though at times I was almost real again, so 
great, so intense was my desire for her recog- 
nition, her love. 

Once Mrs. Stonehenge shivered as I neared 
her chair, and said to Dorothy’s lover, “If I 
had not too much sense to believe the child’s 
story I should think that Father Bertram did 
really haunt us all. I feel as if he were here 
now.” 

I tried to tell her how I was, but she could 
not understand, and the hearty, rude laugh 
of the man I hated scattered her impression. 

“What nonsense, auntie!” he said. “I 
thought better of you than to yield to such 
morbid ideas. There’s precious little of the 
man on earth now.” 

He sneered, a hateful sneer which made 
my shadowy hands clinch with anger, and 
Mrs. Stonehenge spoke quickly. 


292 


THE STORY OF A DREAM 


“Don’t talk so lightly,” she said sharply, 
“he was a good man.” 

“Well, he’s better dead, as far as my opin- 
ion goes,” was the cruel answer, “for as long 
as he lived Dorothy would have had a sneak- 
ing fondness for him, aud I want her all to 
myself. I would not have her give a single 
thought to another man.” 

And leaning over my sleeping darling, he 
kissed her as I had done but a moment ago, 
and she woke to his embraces. Ah, won- 
drous power of love I My caresses had not 
thrilled her. 

Again I stood in front of her and spoke 
lovingly to her, but she only shivered shud- 
deringly. “Somebod3^is walking over my 
grave,” she said, and he caressed her again. 
I could bear it no longer; I kissed, as though 
she, not I, were dead, and left her forever. I 
troubled her no more. But it was a bitter ex- 
perience, an experience which all whose affec- 
tions are centeied on earth must passthrough 
before they reach the peace of Devachan. 
And who can tell the sadness of standing, 
unseen, unheard, unrecognized, by the forms 
of those whom we have loved and who have 
loved us, and being unknown ; of speaking. 


A DREAM OF A DEATH BLOW, AND — PEACE 

caressing, weeping, all in vain? The death 
of a loved one is nothing to this, and the 
world is fall of such shadows, waiting until 
their personalities can be withdrawn from the 
earth. And every sad, every regretful thought 
formed by those left behind holds them back 
from freedom and rest. These are the ‘‘ghosts” 
which “haunt” certain people and many lo- 
calities. 

After I said farewell to Dorothy, I went to 
the friend who had twice warned and advised 
me with such deep, true wisdom, and she 
knew me. “I see you, my friend,” she said 
calmly, as I stood by her chair, striving to 
speak loud enough for her fleshly ears to 
hear, “I see you, but I know what you are; 
you are but the shadow, the sum of the earthly 
desires of the man you once were, and your 
soul is already gone elsewhere. Be wise and 
resolve to leave the earth. It is the only 
way in which you will find peace.” 

From her I went to the church and stood 
gazing down upon the body which I had once 
inhabited. It looked so calm and peaceful 
that I envied it, and I could have wept be- 
holding it, to think of how I had repressed, 
coerced, injured it. I loved my body as the 


^94 STORY OF A DREAM 

old seer Paul said that a man should love his 
wife, and not one of the careworn features 
but was inexpressibly dear to me. I looked 
at the worn face, the thin, clasped hands, the 
repressed lips, and wept as a vision of what it 
should have been rose before me. I did so 
long to inhabit it again. I would have seized 
life at any cost, hov/ever great to me or others, 
and well forme that I presently lost this long- 
ing, for I soon found that I grew stronger 
as I neared others, and faded when they de- 
parted. I might have become a vampire, feed- 
ing on the life-currents of those around me, 
but for the remarks which sickened me as 
they passed above my dead body, my body, 
which seemed to cry out to me for protection 
against the tongues which wagged about it, 
and read the thoughts of those who came 
near. 

And all day long, as the throng came to 
take a last look at me lying there, I suffered ; 
for whether they praised me and talked of my 
goodness or called me “ weak” and “fanatic,” 
I suffered from their judgments. I was, I had 
been, neither so weak nor so good as they 
thought. 

But toward dusk of the last day I spent on 


A t)REAM OF A DEATH BLOW, AND — PEACE 29^ 

earth, a child came and gazed at my dead 
face, and kneeling down, said for me a prayer 
I had taught her to say for those who were 
dead. 

“I hope he will pray for me,” she said, as 
she went away, “now that he is in heaven,” 
and her pure thought set me free. It is thus 
that prayers for the dead are good in their 
effects, — if the prayers are pure. 

“Would God I were in heaven, anywhere 
but here,” I thought, suddenly sickening of 
my phantom life, and as quickly as the 
thought took definite shape, almost before this 
happened, my wish was fulfilled,’ and I — was 
in heaven — Devachan. 

And once here I began to dream, and the 
ffrst vision which came to me, even before I 
realized that it was a dream and not reajity, 
was the last of those dreams concerning the 
old love-story and tragedy of ancient Assyria 
which ever came to me. Now I often dream 
the whole series over again, but this is still the 
last. Shall I ever dream more? 

And this is the dream which closes the 
story which was the forerunner, the counter- 
part, the cause of the effect which produced 
my last dream-life. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


A DREAM OF THE END, AND A JUDGMENT. 

Up through the blue sky, far beyond the 
small, white, fleecy clouds which gave beauty 
to the summer landscape, high above the 
paths of the winds, aye, even to the heaven 
where God dw'ells, a soul rose one day, above 
the ancient land of Assyria, — and it was the 
soul of the youth whom the Israelite slew. 
Sometimes it faltered, sometimes it sank a 
little, drawn earth w’ard by the force of the 
evil that was in it, but ever it rose again, 
until it stood, clothed in the mists which are 
called of men the mysteries of Nature, but 
naked of the things called Thoughts, before 
the face of God. And there it waited, shiver- 
ing in the dawn of a new life, and conscious 
of a great surprise that God was so kind, and 
its own load of evil so light, until another 
soul also ascended. But God spake not yet. 

396 


A DREAM OF THE END, AND — A JUDGMENT 297 

Now this soul, although the soul of the 
youth knew it not, knew not even that it was 
there, the souls being hid from each other by 
their own self-consciousness and standing each 
alone as souls can only stand twice in a life- 
time, — at birth and at the other birth which is 
called death, — was the soul of the maiden 
whom the youth had loved, and who had 
scorned him for the love of the Israelite. And 
the soul of the maiden felt a great surprise 
also, a great passion of wonder that she was 
not stricken to the earth again for all the evil 
which she had done, and for the sin of being 
a woman (for that was in the days when men 
thought that all God had made was not good 
alike, but that a woman was less in his sight 
and the sight of nature than a man), and she, 
too, waited, chilled by the strangeness of her 
surroundings, but warmed by the boundless 
love which radiated from the presence of 
God. And still God spake not. 

And presently still another soul came up 
through the clouds and mists and stood alone 
before the face of God. Now this soul was 
the soul of the Israelite who loved the maiden 
and slew the youth, and he was surprised 
beyond measure, for he had scarce reached 


triE STORY OF A dream 

the presence of God before he knew that all 
souls are alike with the great Law which keeps 
all things in the universe moving, and cares for 
creeping things and men with equal care and 
love. And he was the more surprised to find 
that the soul of an Israelite is no better than 
that of a son of Ishmael in the sight of God, 
and that the soul of a woman is but like that 
of a man in his presence. For in the presence 
of the Infinite, all finite things are ashamed 
and stand abashed. 

And still God said no word, and no sound 
came from his throne. 

And all the souls were surprised to find him 
so much less terrible and so much more 
loving than they had imagined, and to 
discover that the burden of their sins grew 
light instead of heavy in his presence. 
And they were exceeding glad, only they 
rejoiced in silence, for all true praise, like 
all the great and mighty things of the earth, 
is born in silence and solitude, and none of 
the souls knew that the others were also in 
the presence of God. 

Then God spake to the souls, and wonder- 
ful were the things he said to them, yea, some 
of them were too high for human speech or 


A DREAM OF THE END, AND — A JUDGMENT 299 

utterance. But part of them came to me in 
the first dream of ancient Assyria which vis- 
ited me, and part of them I know now. And 
the voice of God was very tender and he 
spake to them as a mother speaks to her err- 
ing child, and the souls wept but still were 
comforted. 

And he said to them, “I know wherein ^^e 
each were tempted and wherein ye each 
suffered. And I am verj^ merciful and loving. 
But yet must ye each bear the consequences 
of your own mistakes, for not even God can 
undo the effects of a single act, be it small as 
a mustard seed or large as the Mount of Sinai, 
and not even the will of God is able to stay 
the power of a thought. For ‘whatsoever a 
man sows, that must he also reap.’ ” 

Then the souls knew nothing for a space, 
only they knew that the name of God was 
not Vengeance, but JUSTICE, and they were 
sent away from their resting places, away 
from the immediate presence of God, to that 
place of souls which is called Devachan. 

Now when this dream first came to me I 
hardly understood it, but afterward I knew 
that I, myself, had been the Israelite, and 


300 


THE STORV OE A DREAM 


Dorothy the maiden, while her lover had been 
the youth whom I slew. And when I knew 
this I repined no more (for in Devachan all 
grow calm and are at peace), for I knew that 
I had but worked out the suffering I had 
myself given to others, and that wherein I had 
been humiliated and defeated, I had formerl}" 
so wounded my rival, the Ishmaelitish youth. 
But I know also that all is not ended yet, for 
I must live on earth again and yet again, un- 
til my nature is purified of all its low tenden- 
cies. But I have this for my comfort, that 
sometime in the better days which are com- 
ing for all humanity I shall meet my love 
and she shall be mine. For I loved her in 
purity and truth, and the desires which a soul 
has after this fashion, albeit they must be con- 
quered before the perfect light of the Spirit 
can shine forth, are indications of what shall 
yet come to pass, and sometime my darling 
shall be mine, and mine only. For we twain 
are twin souls, and her lover that was and is 
shall find another for his opposite and soul- 
harmon}^ And when that one perfect life, 
that pearl of all the countless lives we both 
shall live, shall come to be, it will bring us 
such perfect bliss that the memory of our 


A DRKAM OF THE END, AND A JUDGMENT 3OI 

former sorrows shall be forgotten, and we 
shall know the sum total of human happiness. 
But not yet have we earned this bliss, and the 
law of nature, the irrevocable, unconquera- 
ble, omnipotent law which governs all the 
myriads of worlds which compose the uni- 
verse, has decreed that only that which a soul 
earns can it enjoy. But a life is but a breath 
of eternity, and the day of a cycle but one 
revolution of the great wheel. 

For “a thousand years are as one day in 
the sight of God, and one day as a thousand 
years.” 


CHAPTER XIX. 


A DREAM OF A DREAM THAT IS PAST. 

So here, in Devachan, I rest, and know 
that since all things but thoughts have an end, 
nothing but right thoughts with their followers 
of right actions, kindly words, and loving 
intentions matter, and I have long since ceased 
to think any experience evil. I suffered a 
little when the death of Dorothy’s child tore 
her heart in twain, but I rejoiced that she 
was thus drawn away from that materialism, 
which is the death of the soul if continued 
in long enough, back to — not the formalism 
I had taught her in that last sad life-dream, 
I know better than to desire that now — but 
to that pure faith in the ultimate good of all 
which is the blessing, the natural state of all 
innocent natures. And I have learned to re- 
joice in that she is happy with my rival. I 
have only kind thoughts for all the world. 
And I try by my thoughts, by my dreams 
303 


A DREAM OF A DREAM THAT IS PAST 303 

even, to add to the sum of mankind’s happi- 
ness and knowledge, and to send down mes- 
sages of love and hope to lessen the world’s 
despair. For this is what every good thought 
does, and never a sweet or hopeful dream but 
assists in clearing the mental and spiritual, if 
not the physical sky of the world’s atmos- 
phere. He who thinks a lovely thought is 
better than he who does a noble deed, for the 
thought is the father of the deed, and, like a 
stream, never ceases to flow on and on. 

And so I dream in good-will with all the 
earth and sky, yea, with all the universe, and 
the only thing which troubles my peace is the 
thought that soon now, very soon, I must re- 
turn to the life which men live and see. I 
know it by the strange thrills which I feel 
now and then at the close of a dream, and I 
am not glad in the knowledge. For I may 
not meet my love until many centuries have 
flown, or I may meet her in some other phase 
of relationship and never know her, save by 
the soul-intuitions which men in general de- 
spise, until the moment when I shall again 
stand face to face with the great mystery of 
death and be born anew into Devachan. 

But we shall meet knowingly before the 


V 


304 the story of a dream 

end, and still sadness is tempered by the 
knowledge that all the experiences, glad and 
sorrowful alike, which men live through are 
but dreams when viewed from the standpoint 
of death, and perhaps death also is a dream. 
Perchance men are but dreams likewise, and 
it may be that when we shall awake from our 
dreaming at the last morning of eternity, 
we may find that eternity is a dream as well 
as time. The worlds may all be made of 
dream-stuff, and souls themselves, the only 
realities now, may be only the “ baseless fab- 
ric of a dream.” Who can tell? Who knows? 

And I answer, God knows, — and God is not 
a dream. 


THE END. 




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